 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE WASTED FLOWER
The storms of Heaven have borne thee down;
The stem is broke—thy leaves are strown
In wild disorder o'er the plain
Whence thou shall never lift again
Thy head, to catch the evening dew,
Or charm the lonely wanderer's view.
The stem is broke—thy leaves are strown
In wild disorder o'er the plain
Whence thou shall never lift again
Thy head, to catch the evening dew,
Or charm the lonely wanderer's view.
Yet, wasted flower, thy sweet perfume
Partakes not of thy fearful doom;
It lingers still around the spot
Where erst thy form the sunshine caught;
And pours its incense on the air,
When thou art desolate and bare.
Partakes not of thy fearful doom;
It lingers still around the spot
Where erst thy form the sunshine caught;
And pours its incense on the air,
When thou art desolate and bare.
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Thou art a type, thou lonely flower!
Of virtue's death—surviving power—
Fit emblem of the fragrance shed
Around the truly virtuous dead—
The hallowed memory of the good,
Which from the grave's cold solitude,
Gives to the thought of parted worth,
A charm unknown to things of earth.
Of virtue's death—surviving power—
Fit emblem of the fragrance shed
Around the truly virtuous dead—
The hallowed memory of the good,
Which from the grave's cold solitude,
Gives to the thought of parted worth,
A charm unknown to things of earth.
Boston Statesman, April 19, 1828
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |