Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/107

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.