
















192 POETRY OF FLOWERS. j | 
And are ye here? and are ye here? 
Drinking the dew-like wine, 
Midst living gales and waters clear, 
And heayen’s unstinted shine ? 
I care not that your little life 
Will quickly have run through, 
And the sward, with summer children rife, 
Keep not a trace of you. 
b For again, again, on dewy plain, 
I trust to see you rise, 
When spring renews the wild wood strain, 
And bluer gleam the skies. 
Again, again, when many springs 
Upon my grave shall shine, 
Here shall you speak of vanished things, 
To living hearts of mine, 


LET US GO TO THE WOODS, 

LET us go to the woods—’tis a bright sunny 
day: 
They are mowing the grass, and at work with 
the hay. 


