
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE 
BLOSSOM. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
BeEForeE 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 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 doom’d untimely flowers 
In beauty bow’ a. 
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. 
{yhere tht 
hans Dees ( 
tyeeresbo 
ws det (h 
And das 
| Viton, pale 
towers 
} Wtlme tha 
| lems her b 
And thi 
inate ra 
Tells an 
ube 01 
ll and 
1 eaves W 
Wilsee no 
bells will 

veal 




