246 SONGS AND CHOBTTS OF THE FLOWERS. 



See her whitest lilies 

 Chill the silver showers, 



And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman 

 of her 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 prison'd thoughts we give sudden 

 truce : 



Not a poor town window 



Loves its sickliest planting, 

 But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian 

 vaunting. 



Sagest yet the uses, 



Mix'd with our sweet juices, 



Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm, 

 As fair fingers heal'd 

 Knights from the olden field 



We hold cups of mightiest force to give the 

 wildest calm. 



