SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 
See her whitest lilies 
Chill the silver showers, 
And whac a red mouth is her rose, the woman 
of her flowers. 
Uselessness divinest, 
Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use ; 
Travellers, weary-eyed, 
Bless us, far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden 
truce : 
Not a poor town window 
Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian 
vaunting. 
Sagest yet the uses, 
Mix’d with our sweet juices, 
Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm, 
As fair fingers heal’d 
Knights from the olden field 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the 
wildest calm. 
