The Poetry of Flowers. 
19 
PART III. 
Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, were ; 
Or the waves of the Baice, ere, luminous, 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 
And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant, 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, 
And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low; 
The weary sound and the heavy breath, 
And the silent motions of passing death, 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, 
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank. 
The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, 
Were bright with tears as the crowds did pass; 
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 
The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul: 
Which at first was lovely, as if in sleep, 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 
Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode, 
Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 
The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, 
Paved the turf and the moss below ; 
The Lilies were drooping, and white and wan, 
Like the head and skin of a dying man. 
