Literary Gazette, 25th June, 1825, Page 413
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE ALMOND TREE.
Fleeting and falling,
Where is the bloom
Of yon fair almond tree?
It is sunk to its tomb.
Its tomb, wheresoever
The wind may have borne
The leaves and the blossoms,
Its roughness has torn.
Some there are floating
On yon fountain's breast,—
Some line the moss
Of the nightingale's nest,—
Some are just strewn
O'er the green grass below,
And there they lie stainless,
As winter's first snow.
Yesterday, on the boughs
They hung scented and fair;
To-day, they are scattered
The breeze best knows where.
To-morrow, those leaves
Will be scentless and dead,
For the kind to lament
And the careless to tread.
And is it not thus
With each hope of the heart?
With all its best feelings
Thus will they depart.
They'll go forth to the world
On the wings of the air,
Rejoicing and hoping,
But what will be there.
False lights to deceive,
False friends to delude,
Till the heart, in its sorrow,
Left only to brood;---
Over-feeling crushed, chilled,
Sweet hopes ever flown;
Like that tree, when its green leaves
And blossoms are gone.L. E. L.
