

293 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Do they her beauty keep ? 
They are fresh from her lap I know, 
For I caught them fast asleep 
In her arms an hour ago. 
With the air which is her breath, 
Her soft and delicate breath, 
Over them murmuring low. 
On her lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, 
And her cheek with her tender tears are wet ; 
For she weeps, that gentle mother weeps, 
As morn and night her watch she keeps, 
With a yearning heart and a passionate care ;— 
To see the young things grow so fair; 
She weeps—for love she weeps, 
And the dews are the tears she weeps 
From the well of a mother’s love. 
Ye have a world of light, 
Where love in the loved rejoices, 
But the blind girl’s home is the house of night, 
And its beings are empty voices. 
As one in the realm below 
I stand by the streams of woe, 
I hear the vain shadows glide, 
I feel their soft breath at my side, 
And I thirst their loved forms to see, 
And I stretch my fond arms around, 
And I catch but a shapeless sound, 
For the living are ghosts to me, 
Come buy! come buy! 
Hark how sweet things sigh, 
CO re 
