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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 249 
But shall my soul survive in them ? 
Shall I be all I was before P 
‘ain dream! I wither, soul and stem ; 
I die, and know my place no more. 
The sun may lavish life in them; 
His light, in summer morns and eves, 
May colour every dewy gem 
That sparkles on their tender leaves 3 
But this will not avail the dead; 
The glory of his wond’rous face, 
Who now rains lustre on my head, 
Can only mock my burial-place. 
And woe to me, fond foolish one, 
To tempt an all-consuming ray { 
To think a flower could love a sun, 
Nor feel her soul dissolve away ! 
Oh, could I be what once I was, 
How should I shun his fatal beam 
Wrapt in myself, my life should pass 
But as a still, dark, painless dream ! 
But, vainly in my bitterness 
I speak the language of despair : 
In life, in death, I still must bless 
The sun, the light, the cradling air ? 
Mine early love to them I gave; 
And now that yon bright orb on high 
Tlumines but a wider grave, 
For them I breathe my final sigh. 







