Pressed flower

This flower on the page is Nature’s cry:

Where petal, sepal, calyx, stalk, all dry,

Their essences this hard book will destroy,

Their living souls each pressed and left to die—

Dimensions lost, where they with words do lie,

A cruel image, crushèd like a fly.

A flower thus killed has no tears left to sigh,

A spirit lost in sadly flying high.

Oh, Flower! Death dealt thee an early end;

Perhaps your glass was small? Your stream of sand

Too strong? What manner of passing needs this grave,

So flat and tight—where paupers dare not brave?

So live! before the sandglass runs your ages,

And thou be found—thus crushed—in Time’s deep pages.

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