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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
To-morrow, those leaves 
Will be scentless and dead, 
For the kind to lament, 
And the careless to tread. 
And is it not thus 
With each hope of the heart ? 
With all its best feelings 
Thus will they depart. 
They'll go forth to the world, 
On the wings of the air, 
Rejoicing and hoping ; 
But what will be there P— 
False lights to deceive, 
False friends to delude, 
Till the heart, in its sorrow, 
Left only to brood— 
Over feelings, crushed, chilled, 
Sweet hopes ever flown ; 
Like that tree, when its green leaves 
And blossoms are gone, 
= 7 ee”) ee) ee 
—et (D e  e e OFP 
