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Your voiceless lips, 0 Flowers! are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a booh, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
From loneliest nooh. 
Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor, 
“Weep without wo, and blush without a crime,” 
Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender, 
Your lore sublime! 
“Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Array’d,” the lilies cry, “in robes like ours; 
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory, 
Are human flowers!” 
In the sweet-scented picture, Heavenly Artist! 
With which Thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall ,— 
What a delightful lesson Thou impartest 
Of love to all! 
Not useless are ye. Flowers! though made for pleasure. 
Blooming o’er field and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 
Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could furnish scope? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
Yet fount of Hope! 
Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interr’d in earth, r 
Ye are to me a type of Resurrection, 
A second birth! 
Were I, 0 God! in churchless lands remaining. 
Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would, find in Flowers of Thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines! 
— H. Smith . 
