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FLOWERS IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

"I desire, as I look on these, the ornaments and children of Earth, to
know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more!--whether they
have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is
to be cast? or whether they _have_ their images above, only wrought
in a more wondrous and delightful mould."--_Conversations with an
Ambitious Student in Ill Health_.

Bear them not from grassy dells,
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the green wood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is free,
And the many-whispering tree;
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to Earth again!

Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo then not the spirit back,