The fond exulting parent culls
Its blossoms, rich and red,
And twines a garland bright with hope
For each young slumberer's head.
While they who best its root protect,
With thrilling breast shall prove,
How the sweet charities of home
Fit for a heaven of love.
But when this heart-flower droops its head,
And wearied mortals ask
The deep repose that nightly fits
For morn's returning task,
Up springs another by its side,
With calm and lowly eye,
A seraph-planted germ that holds
Communion with the sky:
The flower of soul! Its breath is prayer,
And fresh its balm-drops flow,
To cleanse the ills that stain'd the day,
And heal the wounds of woe.
While gently o'er its closing sigh,
With blessed vision bends
That angel-guarded sleep, which God
To his beloved sends.
Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/107
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EVENING FLOWERS.
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