204 
THE POETRY OP FLOWERS 
Who that hath ever been, 
Could bear to be no more? 
Yet who would tread again the scene 
He trod through life before? 
On, with intense desire, 
Man’s spirit will move on : 
It seems to die, yet, like heaven’s fire, 
It is not quenched, but gone. 
The sun now sheds on the foliage a pale yellow hue, and 
the poplar is tinged with discolored gold, while the acacia folds 
up its bright foliage, which the sun’s rays will expand no more. 
The birch-tree waves its long branches, already stripped of or¬ 
nament ; and the fir, which preserves its green pyramids, bal¬ 
ances them proudly in the air. The oak is immovable — it re¬ 
sists the efforts of the wind to strip its stately head; and the 
king of the forest refuses to shed its leaves until the ensuing 
spring. We are told that all these trees are moved by different 
passions; one bows profoundly as if it wished to render hom¬ 
age to him whom the tempest cannot move; another seems 
desirous of embracing its companion, the support of its Aveak- 
ness; and while they mingle their branches together, a third 
seems universally agitated as though it were surrounded by en¬ 
emies. Often do we see fallen on the earth, having already 
lost their bright green verdure, clouds of dead leaves that cover 
the ground with a restless garment. We love to contemplate 
the storm that chases, agitates, disperses, and torments, these 
sad remains of a spring which can never return. 
We keep a rainbow all the time, 
Within our lattice low; 
Our vase is crowned with autumn-leaves , 
Through which the sun doth glow, 
Lighting up each transparent, gorgeous shade — 
Green, crimson, purple, gold — all blending in one braid. 
f. s. o. 
