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R. 11 . STODDARD. 
The sleepy poppy and the eglantine, 
Primroses, Dian’s flowers that ope at night, 
And here’s that little sun, the marigold, 
And fringed pinks, and water lilies, bright 
As floating naiads in the river cold; 
Carnations, gillifiowers, and savory rue, 
And rosemary that loveth tears for dew, 
And many nameless flowers and pleasant weeds 
That grow untended, in the marshy meads 
Where flags shoot up and ragged grasses wave 
Perennial, when autumn seeks her grave 
Among the withered leaves; and breezes blow 
A dirge, and winter weaves a shroud of snow. 
Flowers ! oh what loveliness there is in flowers ! 
What food for thought and fancy rich and new! 
What shall we liken or compare them to ? 
Stars in this trodden firmament of ours ; 
Jewels and rare mosaics, dotting o’er 
Creation’s tessellated palace floor ; 
Or beauty’s dials, marking with their leaves 
The pomp and flight of golden morns and eves ; 
Illuminate missals open on the meads, 
Bending with rosaries of dewy beads ; 
Or characters inscribed on nature’s scrolls, 
Or sweet thoughts from the heart of mother earth; 
Or wind-rocked cradles, where the bees in rolls 
Of odorous leaves are wont to lie in mirth, 
Full-hearted, murmuring the hours away 
Like little children busy at their play; 
