Page:Juvenile Forget Me Not 1833.pdf/10



were so beautiful this morn— The lily's graceful wand Hung with small bells, as delicate As from a fairy's hand. The Indian rose, so softly red, As if in coming here It lost the radiance of the south, And caught a shade of fear. The white geranium vein'd with pink, Like that within the shell Where, on a bed of their own hues, The pearls of ocean dwell. But where is now the snowy white, And where the tender red? How heavy over each dry stalk, Droops every languid head!