




134 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
‘Sister, rise! and let me watch you twisting up 
your tresses bright ; 
Stand there, just where I can see you, in the early 
morning light. 
E will look, and you shall listen, while I tell a won- 
drous dream 
Which I dreamt, when these tired eyelids closed at 
daybreak’s cold gray beam. 
‘ Often have I, sighing, told you, how to me there 
came no more 
Those sweet dreams that used to haunt me in the 
first sad time of yore, 
When this long and wasting sickness, stealing all 
my youth and bloom, 
Turned my eyes from bridal altar to the dark and 
ghastly tomb. 
‘It is long since even in slumber I have seen my 
Wilhelm’s face, 
But last night he looked upon me from his blessed 
dwelling place; 
Not as when I last beheld him—still, and cold, and 
marble-white— 
But all radiant as an angel, with his gold hair 
gleaming bright. 
‘ And he kissed my lips and forehead, as in those 
dear olden days, 
fund his eyes once more bent on me their clear loy- 
ing, earnest gaze 5 
e— 
