150 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were 
drowned 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound; 
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 
(Only over head the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 
And snatches of its Elysian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant;) 
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom ot rest; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest and yet the favourite, 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 
