— 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 






















THE LILY’S WHISPER. 
* Bow down thy head, thou born of clay,— 
Bow down thy head to me,” 
A drooping Lily seemed to say, 
As sank the footsteps of the day, 
Upon the grassy lea. 
Its dewy lips to mine I prest, 
And drank its stifled sigh ; 
A tear-drop lay within its breast,— 
“ Hast thou a woe to be confess’d, 
Thou favourite of the sky ?” 

«Two buds beside my heart awoke, 
More pure than opening day—, 
| But lo! a hand with sudden stroke 
i From my embrace these idols broke, 
And bore them hence away.” 




Still deeper seem’d the Lily’s tone 
| My listening ear to greet: 
“Think not for sympathy alone 
That thus to thee I make my moan, 
Though sympathy is sweet. 



