
The Poetry of Flowers. 











































THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 
BEAR them not from grassy dells, 
Where wild bees have honey-cells ; 
Not from where sweet water-sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds 3 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of Death ! 
Kindred-to the breeze they are, 
And the glow-worm’s emerald star ; 
And the bird, whose song is free, 
And the many-whispering tree: 
Oh ! too deep a love, and fain, 
They would win to earth again. 
Spread them not before the eyes 
Closing fast on summer skies ! 
Woo thou not the spirit back 
From its lone and viewless track, 
With the bright things which have birth 
Wide o’er all the coloured earth ! 
With the Violet’s breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 
From the Lily’s pearl-cup shed, 
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 
Dreams of youth—of spring-time eves--- 
Music—beauty—all she leaves ! 
Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art, 
Calmer is Zev gentle heart. 
Yes ! o’er fountain, vale, and grove, 
Leaf and flower, hath gushed her love ; . 
But that passion, deep and true, 
Knows not of a last adieu. 
