86 
POETEY OE FLOWERS. 
As giving it a hope that there 
It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
And sent’st it back to mee, 
Since when it growes, and smells, I swcare, 
Not of itself but thee. 
THE FLOWER DIAL. 
’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, 
As they floated in light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 
That laugh to the summer’s day. 
Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 
And its graceful cup and bell. 
In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, 
Like a pearl in an ocean shell. 
To such sweet signs might the time have flowed, 
In a golden current on. 
Ere from the garden, man’s first abode. 
The glorious guests were gone. 
So might the days have been brightly told— 
Those days of song and dreams,— 
When shepherds gathered their flocks of old. 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 
