POETRY OF FLOWERS. 169 
And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
it warns me to the lonely shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o’er my ashes shed. 
THE ROSE. 
In his tower sat the poet 
Gazing on the roaring sea, 
“Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw it 
Where there’s none that loveth me. 
On the rock the billow bursteth 
And sinks back into the seas, 
But in vain my spirit thirsteth 
So to burst and be at ease. 
Take, O, sea! the tender blossom 
That hath lain against my breast ; 
On thy black and angry bosom 
It will find a surer rest. 
Life is vain, and love is hollow, 
Ugly death stands there behind, 
Hate and scorn and hunger follow 
Him that toileth for his kind.” 




