166 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
And then to sit at noon, 
When bees are humming low, and birds are still. 
And drowsy is the faint uncertain tone 
Of the swift woodland rill. 
And dreams can then reveal 
That, wordless though ye be, ye have a tone, 
A language, and a power, that I may feel, 
Thrilling my spirit lone. 
Ye speak of hope and love, 
Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfume ; 
Of changeful, fragile thoughts, that brightly move 
Men’s hearts amid their gloom. 
Ye speak of human life. 
Its mystery,—the beautiful and brief ; 
Its sudden fading, ’midst the tempest strife. 
Even as a delicate leaf. 
And, more than all, ye speak 
Of might and power, of mercy, of the One 
Eternal, who hath strewed you fair and meek, 
To glisten in the sun ; 
To gladden all the earth 
With bright and beauteous emblems of his grace, 
That showers its gift*of uncomputed worth 
In every clime and place. 
