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THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

How happily, how happily the flowers die away!
Oh! could we but return to earth as easily as they;
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom,
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb.
The gay and glorious creatures! “they neither toil nor spin,”
Yet lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in;
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright
Than ever brow of eastern Queen, endiademed with light.
The young rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never pall—
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all;
The dew, the shower, the sunshine; the balmy blessed air,
Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share.
The happy careless creatures! of time they take no heed;
Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed;
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away;
Nor, when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, “Would God that it were day.”
And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest,
Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast—
No pain have they in dying—no shrinking from decay.
Oh! could we but return to earth as easily as they!