102 POT-POURRI FROM A SURREY GARDEN 



Flower, thou seem'st not born to die, 

 With thy radiant purity, 

 But to melt in air away, 

 Mingling with the soft spring day. 

 When the crystal heavens are still, 

 And faint azure veils each hill, 

 And the lime-leaf does not move, 

 Save to songs that stir the grove, 

 And earth all glorified is seen, 

 As imaged in some lake serene 

 Then thy vanishing should be, 

 Pure and meek anemone. 



Flower, the laurel still may shed 

 Brightness round the victor's head, 

 And the rose in beauty's hair 

 Still its festal glory wear, 

 And the willow leaves droop o'er 

 Brows which love sustains no more ; 

 But thy living rays refined, 

 Thou, the trembler of the wind, 

 Thou, the spiritual flower, 

 Sentient of each breeze and shower, 

 Thou, rejoicing in the skies, 

 And transpierced with all their dyes, 

 Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing, 

 Gem-like to thy centre glowing 

 Thou the poet's type shall be, 

 Flower of soul, anemone. 



May 16th. None of the small cheap bulbs are better 

 worth growing than the Alliums, white and yellow. 

 They increase themselves rapidly, and are quite hardy, 

 though the white ones force well and are useful. People 

 object to them because the stalks smell of garlic at the 

 time of picking, but it goes off as soon as they are put into 

 water; and the flowers are lovely, delicate, and useful, 

 and have the great merit I mention so often of remaining 

 a long time fresh in water. We leave some of the bulbs 

 in the ground, and take up others. Those that are taken 



