36 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest, 
Thou wilt come ,with half a call. 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless prodigal; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we’ve little warmth, or nons 
Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
Kindly unassuming Spirit! 
Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ;—there’s not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But ’tis good enough for thee. 
Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring hours ! 
Butter-cups that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine! 
Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
