THE BROKEN SPELL.
27
The sigh which closing flowers exhale
After the bee, their honey lover,
As to remind him in his flight
Of what will be next noon's delight
'T is a fair garden, almond trees
Throw silver gifts upon the breeze:
Lilies, each a white-robed bride,
With treasures of pure gold inside,
Like marble towers a king has made;—
And of its own sweet self afraid,
A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping,
Lovelier from its timid drooping:—
But in the midst is a rose stem,
The wind's beloved, the garden's gem.
No wonder that it blooms so well:
Thy tears have been on every leaf;
