48 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Around the fragrant prize, 
With eager grasp thy little fingers close : 
What are the dreams that haunt thy soft repose t 
What radiance greets thine eyes ? 
For thou art smiling still; 
Art thou yet wandering in the quiet woods, 
I lucking th’ expanded cups and bursting buds, 
At thine unfetter'd will ? 
Or does some prophet voice 
Murmuring amidst thy dreams, instructive say, 
“Prize well these flowers, for thou, beyond 
to-day, 
Shalt in their spells rejoice !” 
Yes! thou wilt learn their power, 
When, cherish d not as now, thou stand’s! alone, 
Compass’d by sweetly saddening memories 
thrown 
Round thee by leaf or flower ! 
’Twill come ! as seasons come, 
I he empire of the flowers, when these shall raise 
Round thee once more the forms of other days 
Warm with the light oi home ! 
shapes thou no more may’st see ; 
The household hearth, the heart-enlisted prayer 
