146 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And many a poet yet unborn 
Shall link its name with some sweet lay, 
And lovers oft at early morn 
Shall gather blossoms of the May ; 
With eyes bright as the silver dews, 
Which on the rounded May-buds sleep, 
And lips, whose parted smiles diffuse 
A sunshine o’er the watch they keep, 
Shall open all their white array 
Of pearls, ranged like the buds of May. 
Spring shook the cloud on which she lay, 
And silver’d o’er the Hawthorn spray, 
Then shower’d down the buds of May. 
