DIRGE OF FLOWERS 
And there Vimiria* weaves 
Her light and feathery bowers, 
’Mid russet-shaded leaves, 
Where Robin sits and grieves 
Your hasting death, sweet flowers . 
He sings your requiem all the day, 
And mourns because ye pass away. 
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THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
BRYANT. 
The melancholy days are come, 
The saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
And meadows brown and sere. 
Heap’d in the hollows of the grove 
The wither’d leaves lie dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, 
And to the rabbit’s tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, 
And from the shrub the jay ; 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, 
Through all the gloomy day. 
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers 
That lately sprung and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, 
A beauteous sisterhood? 
