THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
101 
’Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 
Not to the domes, where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand; 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned ; 
To that cathedi’al, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply— 
Its choir the wind and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky: 
There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod; 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God,— 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
From loneliest nook. 
Floral apostles ! that, in dewy splendour, 
“ Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” 
