THE FLOWER OR THE LEAF. 347 



arise incidentally, but it must be kept subordinate to the main purpose. 

 The soil must be enriched before it is plowed. Ideas must be clustex'ed 

 into dense and rich groups, individualities magnified and intensified, as, 

 to keep to our subject, the flowers which are classified by the botanist 

 may be individually magnified into almost conscious beings by the poet.* 



* " A nun demure of lowly port, 



Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

 In thy simplicity the sport 



Of all temptations ; 

 A queen in crown of rubies drest, 

 A starveling in a scanty vest. 

 Are all, as seems to suit thee best. 



Thy appellations." — Wordswokth, " To a Daisy." 



" While the patient primrose sits 

 Like a beggar in the cold." — WoRDS-n-ORTH. 



" Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight 

 With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white. 

 And taper fingers catching at all things 

 To bind them all about with tiny rings." — Keats. 



" Bloomy grapes, laughing from green attire.'' — Ibid. 



" And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest — 

 And the hyacinth's purple and white and blue. 

 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 

 Of music, so delicate, soft, and intense, 

 It was felt like an odor within the sense." — Shelley. 



"... daffodils, 

 That come before the swallow dares, and take 

 The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 

 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 

 Or Cytherea's breath."—" Winter's Tale." 



" Continuous as the stars that shine 

 And twinkle in the milky way ; . . . 

 Ten thousand saw I at a glance 

 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance." 



— Wordsworth, " The Daffodils." 



" Daisies, those pearled arcturi of the earth, 

 The constellated flower that never sets." — Shelley. 



" The gold-eyed king-cups fine. 

 The frail blue-bell peereth over 

 Bare broidery of the purple clover." — Tennyson. 



" Open afresh your round of starry folds. 

 Ye ardent marigolds ! " — Keats. 



" Death in the wood — 

 In the death-pale lips apart. 

 Death, in a whiteness that curdles the blood. 

 Now black to the very heart. 



To show that life by the spirit comes, 

 She gave us a soulless flower." 



— Elaine Good ale, " The Indian Pipe." 



