THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
51 
Flora paints each dewy bell. 
But lament, ye sweet spring blossoms, 
Soul hath never thrilled your bosoms, 
All in cheerless night ye dwell. 
Nightingale and lark are singing 
Many a lay of love to you : 
In your chaliced blossoms swinging, 
Tiny sylphs their sylphids woo: 
Deep within the painted bower 
Of a soft and perfumed flower, 
Venus once did fall asleep: 
But no pulse of passion darted 
Through your breast, by her imparted* 
Children of the morning, weep. 
When my mother’s harsh rejection 
Bids me cease my love to speak,— 
Pledges of a true affection, 
When your gentle aid I seek,— 
Then by every voiceless token, 
Hope, and faith unchanged, are spoken, 
And by you my bosom grieves: 
Love himself among you stealeth 
And his awful form concealeth, 
Shut within your folding leaves. 
