if 
Floral Poetry. 
Yet grand parterres, and stiff trimmed beds, 
But ill become our modest heads ; 
We’d rather run, 
In shadow and sun, 
O’er the banks where our merry lives first begun. 
There, where the Birken bough’s silvery shine 
Gleams over the Hawthorn and frail Woodbine, 
Moss deep and green, 
Lies thick between, 
The plots where we Violet-flowers are seen. 
And the small gay Celandine’s stars of gold 
Rise sparkling beside our purple’s fold :— 
Such a regal show 
Is rare I trow, 
Save on the banks where the Violets grow. 
L. A. Twamley. 
