Page 1
THE
DECISION OF THE FLOWER.
. . . . . ’Tis a history
Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale.
Southey's Thalaba.
There is a flower, a purple flower
Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower,
O'er which Love has breathed a power and spell
The truth of whispering hope to tell.
Lightly the maiden's cheek has prest
The pillow of her dreaming rest,
Yet a crimson blush is over it spread
As her lover's lip had lighted its red.
Yes, sleep before her eyes has brought
The image of her waking thought,—
That one thought hidden from all the world,
Like the last sweet hue in the rose-bud curled.
The dew is yet on the grass and leaves,
The silver veil which the morning weaves.
To throw o'er the roses, those brides which the sun
Must woo and win ere the day be done.
