2 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 13) 
When first across my path was brought 
That gentle form, 
My soul no other idol sought 
From night till morn. 
Go quickly, go, 
And let thy modest blushes speak ; 
Though now you blow, 
Too soon thou’rt doomed by winter bleak 
To fade and perish ; 
Thus vanisheth all hope would make 
Me love and cherish. 
And tell her too, 
As morning’s beam doth kiss away 
The tears of dew 
Which thou hast wept since yesterday, 
When thy god set— 
So doth her smile send forth a ray 
To cheer me yet. 
But go, fair flower ! 
No longer by the Winding lea, 
In mossy bower, 
At early dawn thy god thou'lt see; 
He’s set for ever, 
As is my deity to me, 
To rise, ch never ! 


