THE SLEEP OF PLANTS. 21 



Nay toss not the leaves, it is useless all. 



For closed is each dewy eye, 

 The insect hum, and the waterfall 



Are singing their lullaby, 

 And each, in folding its mantle up, 

 The incense crushed from its perfume cup. 



The blushing bud is but lightly stirred— 



The pendant leaf is at rest ; 

 And all will sleep till the little bird 



Springs up from its downy nest, 

 And then the blossom its leaf will raise 

 To greet the morn with a look of praise. 



