the poetry of flowers. 
23 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), 
When heaven’s blithe winds had unfolded them 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 
For each one was interpenetrated 
With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, 
Like young lovers whom youth and love make 
dear, 
Wrapp’d and fill’d by their mutual atmosphere. 
But the sensitive plant, which could give small 
fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the 
giver. 
For the sensitive plant has no bright flower ; 
Radiance and odour are not its dower; 
It loves, even like Love ; its deep heart is full; 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful! 
The light winds, which from unsustaining wings. 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; 
