350 ARBOR DAY 



Out of darkest grows? 

 Who, thiough what funereal pain 

 Souls to love and peace attain? 



Visions aye are on us, 



Unto eyes of power, 

 Pluto's always-setting sun, 



And Proserpina's bower. 

 There, like bees, the pale souls come 

 For our drink with drowsy hum. 



Taste, ye mortals, also; 



Milky-hearted we; 

 Taste, but with a reverend care; 



Active, patient be. 

 Too much gladness brings to gloom 

 Those who on the gods presume. 



CHORUS OF FLOWERS 



We are the sweet flowers, 



Born of sunny showers; 

 (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith) ; 



Utterance, mute and bright, 



Of some unknown delight, 

 We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath: 



All who see us love us 



We befit all places; 



Unto sorrow we give smiles and, unto graces, 

 races. 



