130 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
All the perfumes I’ve tried in the buds that I wreathe, 
Yet found none half so sweet as the one that they 
breathe. 
Beautiful spirit, why dost thou weep ? 
For the death and decay that come swifter than sleep ; 
For the Rose which my blushes at morn dyed with red, 
That by night, in the full bloom of beauty, was dead: 
For the beautiful lips they will to it compare, 
For the cheeks that will fade, be they never so fair; 
They are mortal, sweet sister : here Death severs love ; 
Lasting beauty but lives in the gardens above. 
