 | Poems |  |
22
Sonnet,
On seeing a sprig of the Sensitive Plant dead in a lady's bosom.
Ah! timid, trembling thing, no moreShalt thou beneath each rude breath sink,
Thy virgin attribute is o'er,
From ev'n the gentlest touch to shrink!
No more the zephyr's balmy kiss,
Shall find thy chaste reluctance such,
Still shrinking from the fragrant bliss,
Still vibrating to every touch:
Proud of thy feeling power, the breast
Of Adila with rival pride
You sought,—and drooping there confest,
That feeling power surpass'd, and died!
There to thy keen sensations peace be given,
And there from earth remov'd, enjoy thy heaven!
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