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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Steerin’ to wake at the trump o’ doom :— 
Then my flower though withered shall again re- 
bloom ! 
FLOWERS. 
On ! they look upward in every place, 
Through this beautiful world of ours, 
And dear as a smile on an old friend’s face 
Is the smile of the bright, bright flowers I 
They tell us of wand’rings by woods and by 
streams: 
They tell us of lanes and trees ; 
But the children of showers and sunny beams 
Have lovelier tales than these— 
The bright, bright flowers ! 
They tell of a season when men were not; 
When earth was by angels trod. 
And leaves and flowers in every spot 
Burst forth at the call of God. 
When spirits singing their hymns at even’. 
Wandered by wood and glade, 
And the Lord looked down from the highest hea¬ 
ven, 
And bless’d what he had made— 
The bright, bright flower 1 
