12 WILD FLOWERS. 
Not to the domes, where crumbling arch and column 
Assert the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned,— 
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamp the sun and moon sup¬ 
ply? 
Its choir, the winds and waves; its organ, thunder; 
Its dome, the sky! 
There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the 
sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers 1 are living preach¬ 
ers,— 
Each cup a pulpit,—every leaf a hook, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From lowliest nook. 
Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor 
Weep without woe, and blush without a crime! I 
