THE NOSEGAY.
FLOW’RETS, fresh flow’rets, for a maiden’s grave!
But ah! few flow’rets in the winter bloom;
Spring will return, the leafy branches wave,
But she must moulder in her early tomb.
Few flow’rets bloom ’neath winter’s gloomy sky,
But they are pure and white as winter’s snow,
Meet emblems for pure souls, whose bodies die,
And leave pure memories on earth below.
Through icebound earth their fragile blossoms strive,
Nor can the frosty north their growth o’ercome,
But still like Hopes they spring, that grow and live,
Water’d by tears, beside the lov’d one’s tomb.
Take then these snowdrops, frame a nosegay fair,
That may not shame the hand it should adorn;
The hand and flowers in whiteness may compare,
But sable is the garb of them that mourn.
Darkness divides us oft from those who sleep,
And this we in our vestments would express,
And, like the parted friend for whom we weep,
In darkness we wrap up our tenderness.
