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334 FOREST MELODIES.
Now as its opening buds appear,
How memory fondly stirs; How quickly, warmly starts the tear—
My sister call'd it hers !
Where is that hand which loved to twine
Its first faint buds of red ? The blossoms still in beauty shine—
That hand is with the dead.
0 ! by these buds, just opening now, I know that month has come,
When she, with aching, fev'rish brow, Was passing to the tomb.
She ask'd to have her pillow moved,
One lovely morn like this, To see the rose she nursed and loved
In days of health and bliss.
But when it reach'd its fullest bloom,
She was for burial dress'd; Its leaves were pluck'd in fresh perfume,
And strew'd upon her breast.
And there they wither'd with the one Whom we had loved so well;—
0, thus 'twas ever 'neath the sun With all things beautiful!