















THE BOUQUET. 



MEADOW SAFFRON, 
CoOLCHICUM OFFICINALIS. 









I do not fear to grow old. 
Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 
The speed with which our moments fly ; 
’ I sigh not over vanished years, 
But watch the years that hasten by. 
Why grieve that time has brought so soon 
The sober age of manhood on? 
As idly should I weep at noon 
To see the blush of moming gone, 
‘True, time will sear and blanch my brow; 
Well—I shall sit with aged men, 
And my good glass will tell me how 
A grisly beard becomes me then. 
And should no foul dishonor lie 
Upon my head when I am gray, 
Love yet may search my fading eye, 
And smooth the path of my decay. 
Bryant. 

pj 

