MORAL OF FLOWERS. 79 
While winters upon winters roll, 
There hath a captive trod ; 
His was that madness of the soul 
Which knows not of a God. 
One morn between the clefts of stone 
Two leaflets burst to view ; 
And day by day, and one by one, * 
The fragile branches grew. 
It grew—nor canker knew—nor blight, 
’Neath sun, and storm, and shower; 
A blessing to the captive’s sight 
It grew—a dungeon flower ! 
Oh, beautiful and gentle thing! 
Meek offspring of the sky ! 
Comest thou, like a breath of spring. 
To whisper and to die ! 
The captive marked its growth, and felt 
His soul subdued to tears : 
That tender thing had power to melt 
The gathered frosts of years 
