32 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Flowers ! winter flowers !—the child is dead, 
The mother cannot speak ; 
Oh, softly couch his little head, 
Or Mary’s heart will break ! 
Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
This pale pink ribbon twine, 
And on the little bosom there 
Place this wan lock of mine. 
How like a form in cold white stone, 
The coffined infant lies ! 
Look, mother, on thy little one, 
And tears will fill thine eyes. 
She cannot weep, more faint she grows, 
More deadly pale and still; 
Flowers ! oh, a flower ! a Winter Rose, 
That tiny hand to fill. 
Go, search the fields ! the lichen wet 
Bends o'er th’ unfailing well ; 
Beneath the furrow lingers yet 
The scarlet Pimpernel. 
Peeps not a Snowdrop in the bower, 
Where never froze the spring ? 
A Daisy ? ah ! bring childhood's flower ! 
The half-blown Daisy bring ! 
Yes, lay the Daisy’s little head 
Beside the little cheek ; 
Oh, haste ! the last of five is dead I 
The childless cannot speak 1 
