78 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Even as the blushes of the morn. 
Vanish, and long ere noon 
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, 
So fair I bloom’d; and was I born 
To die as soon ? 
To love my mother, and to die- 
To perish in my bloom! 
Is this my sad, brief history !— 
A tear dropp’d from a mother’s eye 
Into the tomb. 
He lived and loved—will sorrow say—* 
By early sorrows tried ; 
He smiled, he sigh’d, he pass’d away s 
His life was but an April day,—■ 
He loved, and died ! 
My mother smiles, then turns away, 
But turns away to weep: 
They whisper round me—what they say 
I need not hear, for in the clay 
J soon must sleep. 
O, love is sorrow ! sad it is 
To be both tried and true ; 
I ever trembled in my bliss : 
Now there are farewells in a kiss,— 
They sigh adieu. 
