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SELECTIONS FROM BLAKE'S WRITINGS.
A flower was offer'd to me,
Such a flower as May never bore,
But I said, I've a pretty rose tree,
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night,
But my rose turned away with jealousy
And her thorns were my only delight.
Ah! Sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden prime
Where the traveller's journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my sunflower wishes to go.
