


















THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE 
BLOSSOM. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Brrore thy leaves thou com’st once more, 
White blossom of the sloe! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But this 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 ee st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prim 
No more to be. 
Why here in winter? No storm lours 
O’er natyre’s silent shroud ! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 
High 0 er the doom’d untimely flowers 
In beauty bow’d. 
Sweet violets in the budding grove 
Peep where the glad sere run $ 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow’s and love 
Sing to the sup, 

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