so 
THE POETRY OP FLOWERS. 
Again 1 musing tread— 
Forgot my restless bed, 
And long, sick hours.—Too short the blessed 
dream! 
I woke to pain!—to hear the city’s din ! 
But time nor pain shall ever steal 
Or youth or beauty from my mind, 
And blessings on ye, Flowers . 
Though few with me your hours, 
The youth and beauty, and the heart to feel, 
In her who sent you, ye will leave behind! 
- 4 - 
THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 
BY SHELLY. 
PART I. 
A sensitive plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dewj 
And it open’d its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 
And the spring arose on the garden fair, 
Like the spirit of love, felt every where ! 
And each flower and herb on earth’s dark breast 
Ros« from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
