THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
73 
We cannot trace the hidden power 
Which folds thine azure petals up. 
When evening shadows dimly lower, 
And dew-drops gem each floweret’s cup. 
Methinks I should not wish to be 
Like thee, a votary of the sun, 
To bask beneath his beams, yet flee 
Whene’er his brilliant race is run. 
O dearer far the silent night-, 
And lovelier far the star-lit sky, 
Than gaudy day with sunbeams bright, 
And loud with nature’s minstrelsy. 
The night-bird’s song is not for thee, 
The beautiful, the silver moon, 
The holy calm o’er flowers and tree; 
The stillness—nature’s dearest boon. 
Thou art a reveller of day, 
A fair, rejoicing child of light; 
Glad, while the sunbeams o’er thee play 
But drooping in the quiet night. 
Like unto those who freely spend 
Their kindness in our happier hours, 
But should affliction want a friend, 
They prove the sun’s adoring flowers. 
