POETEY OF FLOWERS. 
165 
Beneath the cool green boughs, 
And perfumed bells of the fresh blossomed lime, 
That stoop and gently touch my feverish brow, 
Fresh in their summer prime; 
Or in the mossy dell. 
Where the pale primrose trembles at a breath ; 
Or where the lily by the silent well. 
Beholds her form beneath ; 
Or where the rich queen-rose 
Sits throned and blushing, ’midst her leaves and 
moss; 
Or where the wind-flower, pale and fragile, blows. 
Or violets’ banks emboss. 
Here do 1 love to be,— 
Mine eye alone in passionate love to dwell 
Upon the loveliness and purity 
Of every bud and bell. 
Oh blessedness, to lie 
By the clear brook, where the long-bennet dips! 
To press the rose-bud in its purity 
Unto the burning lips! 
To lay the weary head 
Upon the bank, with daisies all beset. 
Or with bare feet, at early dawn to tread 
O’er mosses cool and wet ! 
