O, cull us not weeds, but flowers of the sea. 

 For lovely and bright and gay-tinted are we; 

 (Jur blush is as deep as the rose of the bowers — 

 Then call us not weeds : we are Ocean's gay flowers. 



Not nursed like the plants of a summer parterre, 

 Whose gales are but sighs of an evening air, 

 Our exquisite, fragile, and beautiful forms 

 Are nursed by the ocean and rocked by the storm. 



Wort/ax: tulh. 



