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Floral Poetry. 
THE VOICE OF THE FLOWERS. 
B LOSSOMS that lowly bend, 
Shutting your leaves from evening’s chilly dew ; 
While your rich odours heavily ascend, 
The flitting winds to woo. 
I walk at silent eve, 
When scarce a breath is in the garden bowers ; 
And many a vision and wild fancy weave 
’Midst you, ye lovely flowers. 
Beneath the cool green boughs 
And perfumed bells of the just-blossomed Lime, 
That stoop and gently touch my feverish brow, 
Fresh in their Summer prime ; 
Or in the mossy dell, 
Where the pale Primrose trembles at a breath ; 
Or where the Lily, by the silent well, 
Beholds her form beneath ; 
Or where the rich Queen-Rose 
Sits, throned and blushing, ’midst her leaves and moss 
Or where the Wind-flower, pale and fragile, blows, 
Or Violets banks emboss. 
Here do I love to be— 
Mine eyes alone in passionate love to dwell 
Upon the loveliness and purity 
Of every bud and bell. 
Oh ! blessedness, to lie 
By the clear brook, where the Long-Bennet dips ! 
To press the Rosebud in its purity 
Unto the burning lips ! 
