14 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth. 
Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines! 
—«—. 
THE WREATH. 
TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
BY WILLIAM PETERS. 
Let others sing the rich, the great, 
The victor’s palms, the monarch’s state , 
A purer joy be mine—• 
To greet the excellent of earth, 
To call down blessings on thy worth, 
And, for the hour that gave thee birth, 
Life’s choicest flowers entwine. 
And lo ! where smiling from above 
(Meet helpmate in the work of love) 
O’er opening hill and lawn, 
With flowerets of a thousand dyes, 
With all that’s sweet of earth and skies. 
Soft brea'hes the vernal dawn. 
