DIAL OF FLOWERS. 215 



On upland slopes the shepherds mark 



The hour, when, as the dial true, 

 Cichorium to the towering Lark 



Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue. 



And thou, " Wee crimson-tipped flower," 



Gatherest thy fringed mantle round 

 Thy bosom, at the closing hour. 



When nightdrops bathe the turfy ground. 



Unlike Silene, who declines 



The garish noontide's blazing light. 

 But when the evening crescent shines, 



Gives all her sweetness to the night. 



Thus in each flower and simple bell. 



That in our path betrodden lie, 

 Are sweet remembrancers, who fell 



How fast their winged moments fly. 



