Hymn to the Flowers 



'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that sivingeth 



And tolls its perfume on the air, 

 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 



A call to prayer. 



"Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers, 



Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 

 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 

 From loneliest nook. 



"Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, 



Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 

 My soul would find, in Flowers of Thy ordaining, 

 Priests, sermons, shrines!" 



HORACE SMITH. 



