 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
263
TO A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS.
Ye, Flowers, together bound of various dyes,Were beauty's own:—did not the sun-lit bow
Of promise quit its station in the skies,
And break to pieces in the meadows low
Where grew ye, daughters of the morn—to each
A different shade imparting, from the blue
Of summer Ocean to the faint red hue
That paints the shell upon his whitened beach?
Oh! would that fairy ministers with dew
Could fill once more your withered cup, or rain
Bathe with refreshing drops your life again;
But the hoar frost is lying where ye grew,
And howls the storm—and with your lifeless stems
Will zephyrs sport no more, ye vegetable gems!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |