THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
191 
When winter decks his few gray hairs. 
Thee in the scanty wreath he wears; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs. 
That she may sun thee : 
Whole summer-fields are thine by right. 
And Autumn, melancholy wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight, 
When rains are on thee. 
In shoals and bands, a morrice train. 
Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane; 
If welcomed once thou com’st again; 
Thou art not daunted ; 
Nor car’st if thou be set at nought 
And oft alone, in nooks remote. 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 
When such are wanted. 
The violets in their secret mews, 
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; * 
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling ; 
Thou liv’st with less ambitious name. 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 
Thou art, indeed, by many a claim, 
The poet’s dariing. 
If to a rock from rains he fly, 
Or some bright day of April’s sky. 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
Near the green holly; 
