THE FIRST LETTER.
169
But while I gather these my thoughts, they fade,
And pressed upon the page their colours fly,
And all their sap runs from them, wan and dry,
Like withered flowers within a herbal laid;
And this may be, perchance, because my heart
Hath been alike their cradle and their tomb,
Close folded there too long, their hues depart,—
Yet press them unto thine, and they will bloom!
And pressed upon the page their colours fly,
And all their sap runs from them, wan and dry,
Like withered flowers within a herbal laid;
And this may be, perchance, because my heart
Hath been alike their cradle and their tomb,
Close folded there too long, their hues depart,—
Yet press them unto thine, and they will bloom!
