





240 POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
Die, gentle flower, 
In the silent sun! 
So !—all pangs are over ; _ 
All thy tasks are done. 
Day hath no more glory, 
Though he soars so high $ 
Thine is all man’s story, 
Live—and love—and dies 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of 
the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mea- 
dows brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered 
leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab- 
bit’s tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 
shrub the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through 
all the gloomy day. 
