Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/107

Rh

The fond exulting parent culls Its blossoms, rich and red, And twines a garland bright with hope For each young slumberer's head.

While they who best its root protect, With thrilling breast shall prove, How the sweet charities of home Fit for a heaven of love.

But when this heart-flower droops its head, And wearied mortals ask The deep repose that nightly fits For morn's returning task,

Up springs another by its side, With calm and lowly eye, A seraph-planted germ that holds Communion with the sky:

The flower of soul! Its breath is prayer, And fresh its balm-drops flow, To cleanse the ills that stain'd the day, And heal the wounds of woe.

While gently o'er its closing sigh, With blessed vision bends That angel-guarded sleep, which God To his beloved sends.