POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
177 
You look at the bank, ’mid the biting frost, 
And you sigh and say that were dead and lost; 
But, lady, stay, 
For a sunny day, 
And you’ll find us again alive and gay. 
On mossy banks, under forest trees. 
You’ll find us crowding, in days like these ; 
Purple and blue, 
And white ones too. 
Peep at the sun, and wait for you. 
By maids and matrons, by old and young, 
By rich and poor our praise is sung ; 
And the blind man sighs 
When his sightless eyes 
He turns to the spot where our perfumes rise. 
There is not a garden country through. 
Where they plant not violets white and blue; 
By princely hall. 
And cottage small— 
For we’re sought, and cherished, and cull’d byall. 
Yet grand parterres, and stiff-trimmed beds, 
But ill become our modest heads! 
We’d rather run. 
In shadow and sun. 
O’er the banks where our merry lives first beffun 
121 M . ' 
