
























































THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS, 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Y= living gems of cold and fragrant fire! 
Die ye for ever, when ye die, ye flowers? 
Take ye, when in your beauty ye expire, 
An everlasting farewell of your bowers ? 
No more to listen for the wooing air, 
And song-brought morn, the cloud-tinged wood 
lands o’er ! 
No more to June’s soft lip your breasts to bare, 
And drink fond evenino’s dewy breath no more! 
Soon fades the sweetest, first the fairest dies, 
For frail and fair are sisters ; but the heart, 
Fill’d with deep love, death’s power to kill denies 
And sobs e’en o’er the dead, ‘‘ We cannot part !”’ 
Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams? 
Like a pure spirit—beauteous as the skies, 
When the clear blue is brighest, and the streams 
Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes 
Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined— 
Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death? 
Yea, and thy voice was Sweeter than the wind 
When it inhales the love-sick violet’s breath, 
Bending 1t down with kisses, where the bee 
Hums over golden gorse, and sunny broom, 
Soul of the Rose! What saidet thou then to me? 





















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