248 SONGS AND CHORUS OP THE FLOWERS. 
To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not; 
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a 
glory exhales not. 
Think of all these treasures 
Matchless works and pleasures, 
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say, 
Then think in what bright showers 
We thicken fields and bowers, 
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 
wanton May: 
Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted. 
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 
enchanted. 
Trees themselves are ours ; 
Fruits are born of flowers ; 
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the 
spring: 
The lusty bee knows well 
The news, and comes pell-mell. 
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome 
antheming. 
