98 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Thou must not, my beloved ! 
Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died! 
TO A WILD FLOWER. 
In what delightful land, 
Sweet scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth 
Thou art no offspring of the common earth, 
By common breezes fann’d. 
Full oft my gladden’d eye, 
In pleasant glade or river’s marge has traced, 
(As if there planted by the hand of taste). 
Sweet flowers of every dye. 
But never did I see. 
In mead, or mountain, or domestic bower, 
’Mong many a lovely and delicious flower. 
One lialf so fair as thee. 
Thy beauty makes rejoice 
My-inmost heart. I know not how ’tis so— 
Quick coming fancies thou dost make mo know, 
For fragrance is thy voice. 
