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POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
Who, in the day of grief and pain, 
Are found deceitful, light and vain, 
For thou dost never change, 
But thou art emblem of the friend, 
Who, whatsoe’er our lot, 
The balm of faithful love will lend, 
And true, and constant to the end, 
May die, but alters not. 
THE GIRL AND THE BLOSSOMS, 
WHEN apple-trees in spring were gay, 
With many a rosy blossom, 
A damsel plucked them every day 
To deck her hair and bosom. 
She wove her wreaths in sport alone, 
Or vain profusion rather, 
Till all the gifts of May were gone, 
. And there was none to gather. 
But Time, who sleeps not though he’s mute, 
At length brought on the season 
When blossoms are exchanged for fruit 
Which all expect with reason. 











