




i 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
A MOTHER'S DIRGE 
OVER HER CHILD. 
Brine me flowers all young and sweet, 
That I may strew the winding-sheet, 
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair, 
With roseless cheek and auburn hair. 
Bring me the rosemary, whose breath 
Perfumed the wild and desert heath ; 
The lily of the vale, which, too, 
In silence and in beauty grew. 
Bring cypress from some sunless spot ; 
Bring me the blue forget-me-not ; 
That I may strew them o’er thy bier, 
With long-drawn sigh and gushing tear. 
Oh whatupon this earth doth prove 
So stedfast as a mother’s love ? 
Oh, what on earth can bring relief 
Or solace to a mother’s gricf? 
No more, my baby, shalt thou lie, 
With drowsy smiles and half-shut eye, 
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