THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
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Fresh smitten by thy morning ray, 
When thou art' up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
With kindred gladness : ’ 
And when at dusk, by dews opprest, 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
. Which I, wherever thou art met, 
To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense— 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
Nor whither going. 
Child of the year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course,—when day's begun, 
As ready to salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; thou not in vain 
Art Nature’s favourite. 
