
THE POETRY (F FLOWERS. 67 
THE ALMOND-TREE. 
BY MISS LANDON, 
Frertine and falling, 1 
Where is the bloom | 
Of yon fair Almond-tree ? | 
It is sunk in the tomb. 

Its tomb wheresoever {| 
The wind may have borne | 
The leaves and the blossoms 
Its roughness has torn. 
Some there are floating 
On yon fountain’s breast,—= 
Some line the moss {| 
Of the nightingale’s nest,— || 
Some are just strewn 
U’er the green grass below, 
And there they lie stainless | 
As winter’s first snow. 

Yesterday, on the boughs 
They hung scented and fair ; 
To-day they are scatter’d 
The breeze best knows where, 



