DIAL OF FLOWERS. 
215 
On upland slopes the shepherds mark 
The hour, when, as the dial true, 
Cichorium to the towering Lark 
Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue. 
And thou, “Wee crimson-tipped flower,” 
Gatherest thy fringed mantle round 
Thy bosom, at the closing hour, 
When nightdrops bathe the turfy ground. 
Unlike Silene, who declines 
The garish noontide’s blazing light, 
But when the evening crescent shines, 
Gives all her sweetness to the night. 
Thus in each flower and simple bell, 
That in our path betrodden lie, 
Are sweet remembrancers, who tell 
How fast their winged moments fly. 
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