











226 POHURY OF FLOWERS. 
Tow passing beautiful they are, 
On youth’s unclouded plain ; 
And yet we scarcely know their worth, 
Till life is on its wane: 
Then grows their love a deeper thing, 
As our long path-way tends 
Down ’mid the withering plants of hope, 
And graves of buried friends, 
Like ready comforters, they bend, 
If sorrow pales the cheek, 
And to the sad, desponding heart, 
An angel’s message speak ; 
While, to the listening mourner’s ear, 
They fondly seem to say 
The words of those departed ones, 
Who sleep in mouldering clay. 
We nurse them in our casement warm, 
When Winter rules the year, 
And see them raise their graceful form, 
The darkest day to cheer ; 
Within our coffin-lid they glow, 
When death hath had his will ; 
And o’er our pillow in the dust 
They bend and blossom still. 
Yes, o’er our cradle-bed they creep, 
With rich and sweet perfume ; 
Around the marriage altar twine, 
And cheer the darksome tomb ; 
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