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The flowret fades when day is done, and so does every mother's son Who thinks his course is just begun, And knows not that his race is run How does it go on, Clarice? I forget the rest of it." "It is a pity you didn't forget the whole of it. I would if I were you, and quickly, lest you horrify some one else with it. You are too big to pose as a flowret, Bob." "Polestar of my faith, see here.
Is not man from his birth doomed a pilgrim to roam O'er the world's dreary wilds, whence by fortune's rude gust. In his path, if some flowret of joy chanced to bloom, It is torn and its foliage laid low in the dust." At length she fixed upon a day for her departure.
You flowret, nodding in the wind, Is ready plighted to the bee; And, maiden, why that look unkind? For, lo! thy lover seeketh thee. This stanza is a detraction from the poem as we know it, and assuredly its author has a right to drop it. Concerning the fifth stanza, Mr. Burroughs says he has never liked it, and has often substituted one which he wrote a few years ago. The stanza he would reject is
Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made me remark the beautiful carvings of leaves and flowers wrought in stone with the most exquisite delicacy, and, notwithstanding the lapse of centuries, retaining their sharpness as if fresh from the chisel; rivalling, as Scott has said, the real objects of which they were imitations: "Nor herb nor flowret glistened there But was carved in the cloister arches as fair."
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