Floral Poetry. 
To lay the weary head 
Upon the bank with Daisies all beset; 
Or with bare feet, at early dawn, to tread, 
O’er mosses cool and wet ! 
And then, to sit at noon 
When bees are humming low, and birds are still, 
And drowsy is the faint uncertain tone 
Of the swift woodland rill. 
And dreams can then reveal 
That, worldless though ye be, ye have a tone, 
A language, and a power, that I may feel 
Thrilling my spirit lone. 
Ye speak of hope and love, 
Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfume ; 
Of changeful, fragile thoughts, that brightly move 
Men’s hearts amid their gloom. 
Ye speak of human life : 
Its mystery—the beautiful and brief; 
Its sudden fading, ’midst the tempest strife, 
Even as a delicate leaf. 
And more than all, ye speak 
Of might and power, of mercy, of the One 
Eternal, who hath strewed you fair and meet 
To glisten in the sun : 
To gladden all the earth 
With bright and beauteous emblems of His grace, 
That showers its gifts of uncomputed worth 
In every clime and place. 
Browne. 
C 
