162 
POETEY OF FLOWERS, 
Thou bring’st me back the time 
When I would pause from morn till even 
To hear the sweet bell’s distant chime, 
Like melody from Heaven. 
I ■gaze,—thou art no more a flower, 
But some bright scene of early youth. 
The wild wood-side—a summer bower— 
All clear and pure as truth ! 
FLOWERS FOR THE BEE. 
Come, honey-bee, with thy busy hum. 
To the fragrant tufts of the wild thyme come, 
And sip the sweet dew from the cowslip’s head. 
From the lily’s bell and the violet’s bed. 
Come, honey-bee. 
There is spread for thee 
A rieh repast in wood and field. 
And a thousand flowers 
Within our bowers 
To thee their nectar’d essence yield. 
Come, honey-bee, to our woodlands come. 
There’s a lesson for us in thy busy hum ; 
Thou hast treasures in store in the hawthorn’s 
wreath. 
In the golden broom and the purple heath ; 
