Anon.
Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent Marigolds!
Dry up the moisture of your golden lids.
When, with a serious musing, I behold
The grateful and obsequious Marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast when Phœbus spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk
Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedewed as ’twere with tears till he returns.
Withers.
I need not say how, one by one,
Love’s flowers have dropped from off love’s chain,
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.
Miss Landon.
We sometimes see a shadow swiftly skim
In summer o’er the hills and vales of earth:
So transient shades steal o’er the face of mirth,
And frequent tears the brightest eyes bedim.
MacKellar.
Thine is a grief that wastes the heart,
Like mildew on a tulip’s dyes—
When hope, deferred but to depart,
Loses its smiles but keeps its sighs.