Floral Poetry. 
And wearily at length should fare; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art! — a friend at hand, to scare 
His melancholy. 
A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension; 
Some steady love ; some brief delight; 
Some memory that'had taken flight; 
Some chime or fancy wrong or right, 
Or stray invention. 
If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee should turn 
I drink out of an humbler urn 
A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds ; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure. 
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou are met, 
To thee am owing ; 
