THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiring 
But it was sent thee with some tender thought, 
How can I leave thee— here! Alas for man' 
The herb in its humility may fall 
And waste into the bright and genial air, 
While we—by hands that ministered in life 
Nothing but love to us—are thrust away— 
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, 
And the warm sunshine trodden out for ever 1 
Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone; 
The birds are never silent that build here, 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters; 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
And far below, seen under arching leaves, 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
Pointing the living after thee. And this 
Soems like a comfort; and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies— 
Robb’d of her child and lonely. ’Tis the work 
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 
To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 
Hope mpst give o’er, and busy fancy blot 
The images from all the silent rooms, 
