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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 43 
Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, 
O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; 
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest 
daughter, 
There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone. 
And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving 
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d, 
Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! midst all things 
loving, 
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss’d 
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam glad- 
ness, 
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they 
list ! 
—Oh ! it were breathing words too deep in sad- 
ness, 
To say—earth’s human flowers not more are 
miss’d. 
THE ROSE. 
Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 











