THE POELRY OF 
FLOWERS. 
\| fet, rich as morn, of many a hue, 
| When flushing clouds through darkness strike 
The Tulip’s petals shine in dew 
BY HER 
All beautiful, but none alike. 
| ee 
TO BLOSSOMS. 
ICK. 
|| Farr pledges of a fruitful tree, 
| And go at last. 

f +L wey 
into the grave. 
| Why do ye fall so fast 2 
Your date is not so past 
But you may stay here yet awhile, 
|| To blush and gently 
smile, 
| 
| What! were ye born to be 
| An hour or half’s delight, 
|| And so to bid good-night ? 
| ‘T'was pity nature brought ye forth 
| Merely tc show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 
But ye are lovely leaves, where we 
|| May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne’er so brave: 
| And after they have shown their pride. 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
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