36 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
To-morrow those leaves 
Will be scentless and dead, 
For the kind to lament, 
And the careless to tread. 
And is it not thus 
With each hope of the heart ? 
With all its best feelings, 
Thus will they depart. 
They’ll go forth to the world 
On the wings of the air, 
Rejoicing and hoping; 
But what will be there? 
False lights to deceive, 
False friends to delude, 
Till the heart in its sorrow's 
Left only to brood. 
Over feelings crushed, chilled. 
Sweet hopes ever flown ; 
Like that tree when its green leaves 
And blossoms are gone. 
THE LILY. 
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
The stream with languid murmur creeps 
In Lumin’s flowery vale ; 
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps, 
Slow waving to the gale. 
