Evening Flowers

When shuts the rose at even tide,The lily folds its bell,And every bud on vale or wild,Dream in their hermit cell.

Then, neath still twilight, dim and grey,Or where the taper stands,Or meekly by the fireside ray,The flower of heart expands.

The influence of this favoring hourThe watchful lover knows,And marks its soft mimosa leavesTheir modest charms disclose.

The husband by its fragrance cheer'd,Unlocks the cares of day,Which, neath the warm, confiding smile,Like shadows, fleet away.

The fond exulting parent cullsIts blossoms, rich and red,And twines a garland bright with hopeFor each young slumberer's head.

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

But when this heart-flower droops its head,And wearied mortals askThe deep repose that nightly fitsFor morn's returning task,

Up springs another by its side,With calm and lowly eye,A seraph-planted germ that holdsCommunion 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 bendsThat angel-guarded sleep, which GodTo his beloved sends.