






248 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
FLOWER. 
Alas! no kingly tree am I, 
No marvel of a thousand years : 
I cannot dream a winter by, 
And wake with song when spring appears. 
At best, my life is kin to death ; 
My little all of being flows 
From summer’s kiss, from summer’s breath, 
And sleeps in summer’s grave of snows. 
PASSENGER, 
Yet grieve not! summer may depart, 
And beauty seek a brighter home, 
But thou, thou bearest in thy heart 
The germ of many a life to come ; 
Mayst lightly reck of autumn storms 
Whate’er the individual doom, 
Thine essence, blent with other forms, 
Will still shine out in radiant pias ! 
FLOWER. 
Yes !—moons will wane, and bluer skies 
Breathe blessing forth for flower and tree; 
I know, that while the unit dies, 
‘The myriad live immortally : 
ae 
_ 
