68 
THE ICETKY 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 crush’d, chill’d, 
Sweet hopes ever flown; 
Like that tree when its green leaves 
And blossoms are gone. 
