FLOWERS. 
These in flowers and men are more than seeming; 
Workings are they of the self-same powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 
Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is bora ; 
Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; 
Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing, 
And in Summer’s green emblazon’d field, 
But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 
Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top and by the brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 
Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But in old cathedrals high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 
In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 
In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 
And with child-like, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 
Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 
LONGFELLOW. 
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