248 SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 



To expound such wonder 

 Human speech avails not ; 

 Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a 

 glory exhales not. 



Think of all these treasures 

 Matchless works and pleasures, 



Every one a marvel, more than thought can say, 

 Then think in what bright showers 

 We thicken fields and bowers, 



And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 



wanton May : 

 Think of the mossy forests 

 By the bee-birds haunted, 



And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 

 enchanted. 



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 gloomy thicks with darksome 

 antheming. 



