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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
August in beauty, stern in power, 
Days past—thou Ivy never sere! 
And thou shalt have thy dower. 
All are thine, or must be thine ! 
Temple, pillar, shrine! 
THE COWSLIP. 
Now, in my walk, with sweet surprise, 
I see the first spring cowslip rise. 
The plant whose pensile flowers 
Bend to the earth their beauteous eyes, 
In sunshine as in showers. 
Low on a mossy bank it grew, 
Where lichens purple, red and blue. 
Among the verdure crept; 
Its yellow ringlets dropping dew. 
The breezes lightly swept. 
A bee had nestled on its bloom. 
He shook abroad their rich perfume, 
Then fled in airy rings ; 
His place a butterfly assumes. 
Glancing his glorious wings. 
