








170 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Forth into the night he hurled it, 
And with bitter smile did mark 
How the surly tempest whirled it 
Swift into the hungry dark. 
Foam and spray drive back to leeward, 
And the gale with dreary moan, 
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, 
Through the breakers all alone. 
Stands a maiden on the morrow, 
Musing by the wave-beat strand, 
Half in hope and half in sorrow, 
Tracing words upon the sand ; 
‘s Shall I ever then behold him 
Who hath been my life so long,— 
Ever to this sick heart fold him,— 
Be the spirit of his song ? 
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 
I have traced upon thy shore, 
Spare his name whose spirit fetters 
Mine with love for evermore !’’ 
Swells the tide and overflows it, 
But with omen pure and meet, 
Brings a little rose, and throws it 
Humbly at the maiden’s feet. 
Full of bliss she takes the token, 
And, upon her snowy breast, 
Soothes the ruffled petals, broken 
With the ocean’s fierce unrest. 
‘¢ Love is thine, O heart ! and surely 
Peace shall always be thine own, 
