Floral Poetry. 
55 
The dream of the injured, patient mind, 
That smiles at the wrongs of men, 
Is found in the bruised and wounded rind 
Of the Cinnamon, sweetest then ! 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
Moore. 
THE LOVE OF FLOWERS. 
F LOWERS ! flowers ! bright, merry-faced flowers ; 
I bless ye in joyous or saddened hours : 
I love ye dearly, 
Ye look so cheerly. 
In Summer, Autumn, Winter or Spring, 
A flower is to me the loveliest thing 
That hath its birth 
On this chequered earth :— 
Oh ! who will not chorus the lay I sing! 
Flowers! flowers! who loveth them not ? 
Who hath his childhood’s sports forgot? 
When Daisies white, 
And King-cups bright, 
And Snowdrops, Cowslips, and Daffodils, 
Lured us to meadows and woods and rills; 
And we wandered on, 
Till a wreath was won 
Of the heather-bells crowning the far-off hills. 
L. A. Tramley. 
