THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
203 
Vet, rich as morn, of many a hue, 
When flushing clouds through darkness strike 
The Tulip’s petals shine in dew 
All beautiful, but none alike. 
TO BLOSSOMS. 
BY HERRICK. 
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past 
But you may stay here yet awhile, 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 
What! were ye born to be 
An hour or half’s delight, 
And so to bid good-night '( 
Twas pity nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 
But ye are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne’er so brave : 
And after they have shown their pride. 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 
