56 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS 



Trees themselves are ours ; 



Fruits are born of flowers ; 

 Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the Spring ; 



The lusty bee knows well 



The news, and comes pell-mell, 

 And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome 

 antheming. 



Beneath the very burthen 



Of planet-pressing ocean 



We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for 

 meek devotion. 



Tears of Phoebus missings 



Of Cytherea's kissings, 



Have in us been found, and wise men find them 

 still ; 



Drooping grace unfurls 



Still Hyacinthus* curls, 

 And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; 



Thy red lip, Adonis, 



Still is wet with morning ; 



And the step that bled for thee the rosy briar 

 adorning. 



Oh ! true things are fables, 



Fit for sagest tables, 

 And the flowers are true things, yet no fables they ; 



Fables were not more 



Bright, nor loved of yore 



Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old 

 pathway ; 



