POETUY OF FLOWERS. 
This was the conscious flower that threw 
Its lovely fragrance on the night : 
Thou only oped thy pallid hue 
Beneath the silent flood of light. 
Thy sisters veil their foreheads fair, 
And fold their bells on heath and dale ; 
Nor on the misty evening air 
Their breath of sweetness dare exhale. 
But thou dost long for holy eve, 
To shroud thee from day’s piercing eye 
Night’s chilly hours alone receive 
Thy secret tear and perfumed sigh. 
SPRING FLOWERS. 
The flowers ! the lovely flowei’s ! 
They are springing forth again; 
Are opening their gentle eyes 
In forest and in plain ! 
They cluster round the ancient stems. 
And ivied roots of trees. 
Like children playing gracefully 
About a father’s knees. 
The flowers ! the lovely flowers I 
Their pure and radiant eyes 
