






THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
O renstve Sister! thy tear-darken’d gaze 
I understand, whene’er thou look’st upon 
The Garden’s gilded green and colour’d blaze, 
The gay society of flowers and sun. 
Thou thinkest of the withering that must come, 
The quenching of this radiance all around, 
The hastening change in Nature’s merriest home, 
The future blackness of the orphan’d ground, 
Thou thinkest too of those more precious blooms 
The firsiling honours of thy Life’s fresh field, 
Ihe childly feelirigs that have all their tombs, 
The hopes of youth that now no odours yield: 
Still many a blessed sense, in living glee, 
Waves its bright form to glorify thy breast, 
But this fair scene’s perverse morality 
Tells thee, they all will perish like the rest: 
Yet pluck them, hurt them not; whate’er betides, 
Touch not with wilful force those flowers of 
thine,— 
Let death receive them, his inviolate prides, 
They are the destined vestals of his shrine. 



