FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 101 
praise; we even doubt whether it possesses the quality 
from which it was named — that of turning toward 
the sun, both when it rose and set. It belongs not to 
the flowers which are twined around our memories— 
we find it not among those that conjure up the days 
of our youth, when Love but breathed in broken 
whispers, and the awed tongue could not yet give utter¬ 
ance to the feelings of the heart. Happy days ! when 
even to sigh was a pleasure, and the abashed lips found 
a rich banquet while only feeding upon fancy,—when 
Love found a May in every month, and the song of 
the nightingale all the year long in her voice, that 
never breathed without making the sweetest music,— 
when, as an old poet nearly three hundred years ago, 
in his 11 Golden Legacy,” beautifully said,— 
“ Love in my bosom, like a bee, 
Doth suck his sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet; 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amid my tender breast, 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 
