54 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS 



See her whitest lilies 

 Chill the silver showers, 



And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of 

 the Flowers. 



Uselessness divinest, 



Of a use the finest, 

 Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 



Travellers, weary-eyed, 



Bless us, far and wide ; 



Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden 

 truce ; 



Not a poor town-window 



Loves its sickliest planting, 



But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's 

 whole vaunting. 



Sage are yet the uses 



Mixed with our sweet juices, 

 Whether man or May-fly profits of the balm ; 



As fair fingers healed 



Knights from the olden field, 



We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest 

 calm. 



E'en the terror, poison, 



Hath its plea for blooming ; 



Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 

 presuming. 



And, oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 

 That thief, the honey-maker, 

 What a house hath he, by the thymy glen ! 



