74 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 
Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born : 
Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing. 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 
Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing. 
And in Summer’s green-emblazoned field. 
But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing. 
And in the centre of his brazen shield : 
Not alone in meadows and green alleys. 
On the mountain top, and by the brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys. 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 
Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone. 
But on old cathedrals high and hoary. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; 
In the cottage of the rudest peasant. 
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 
In all places then, and in all seasons. 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
