
The Poetry of Flowers. 39 

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
BEFORE thy leaves thou com’st once more, 
White blossom of the Sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But tnis poor heart, its troubles o’er, 
Will then lie low. 
A month at least before thy time 
Thou com’st, pale flower, to me ; 
For well thou know’st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 
No more to be. 
Why here in Winter? No storm lours 
O’er Nature’s silent shroud ! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 
High o’er the doomed untimely flowers 
In beauty bowed. 
Sweet Violets in the budding grove 
Peep where the glad waves run ; 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow’s joy and love, 
Sing to the sun. 
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, 
Smiles o’er the well in summer cold, 
And daisied sod. 
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
And flowers in winter blow, 
To tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
And thinks me slow. 


























