94 
POETEY OF FLOWEE3.' 
But then, I never dare another cull, 
To crush its being, and for ever end 
Its commune with its fellows beautiful; 
Ah ! no, presence and absence never blend 
A consciousness about them ; or to rend 
Lover from lover, in their early wooing. 
When even the rainbow their dew’d eyes tran¬ 
scend ; 
For our adornment merely—oh ! ’twere doing 
Sweet creatures bitter wrong, with our worst woes 
indulging. 
At least, for conscience-sake. I’ll not believe 
That they are sensible to hearted feeling : 
For in no creature’s being would I weave 
Those griefs which even now I am revealing 
In tears and sighs, from lips and eyelids steal¬ 
ing— 
Sad rain and wind of my heart’s laden cloud !— 
By which, if they do feel, with wounds unheal¬ 
ing 
Their parted spirits must be cleft and bow’d 
Till they grew pale and sear, and wore death’s 
common shroud. 
Then, to the lover’s and the poet’s warning 
Attend, as to a Delphic oracle ; 
When flowers into the grey eyes of the morning 
Peer in awaken’d beauty from Night’s cell; 
On the warm heart of Noontide when they 
dwell: 
