CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS 53 



Mark our ways, how noiseless 

 All, and sweetly voiceless, 

 Though the March winds pipe to make our passage 



clear ; 



Not a whisper tells 

 Where our small seed dwells, 

 Nor is known the moment green when our tips 



appear. 



We thread the earth in silence, 

 In silence build our bowers ; 



And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop, 

 sweet Flowers. 



The dear, lumpish baby, 

 Humming with the May bee, 

 Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through 



the grass ; 



The honey-dropping moon, 

 On a night in June, 



Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bride- 

 groom pass. 



Age, the withered clinger, 

 On us mutely gazes, 



And wraps the thought of his last bed in his child- 

 hood's daisies. 



See, and scorn all duller 



Taste, how Heaven loves colour ; 

 How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green ; 



What sweet thoughts she thinks 



Of violets and pinks, 



And a thousand flashing hues made solely to be 

 seen; 



