234 THE POESV OF FLOWERS. 



THE FLOWER SPIRIT. 



I am the spirit that dwells in the flower; 



Mine is the exquisite music that flies, 

 When silence and moonlight reign over each bower 



That blooms in the glory of tropical skies. 

 I woo the bird, with his melody glowing, 



To flit in the sunshine and warble its strain; 

 And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing, 



The songster is paid for his music again. 



There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding; 



Care is a stranger, and troubles us not; 

 And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding 



I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot. 

 They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces 



They drink our warm breath rich with odor and song . 

 They hurry away to their desolate places, 



And look for us hourly, and think of us long. 



Who, of the dull earth, that 's moving around us, 



Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose, 

 At the opening of spring, our destiny found us 



A prisoner until the first bud should unclose ; 

 Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us, 



Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air, 

 And leap off in joy to the music that won us, 



And made us the tenants of climates so fair? 



W. G. Simmt. 



