the poetry of flowers. 8.” 
We hold cupts of mightiest force to give the wild 
est calm. 
Ev’n the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for biooming; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 
presuming. 
And oh ! our sweet sonl-taKer, 
I hat thief, the honey maker, 
VV hat a house hath lie, by the thymy glen ! 
In his talking rooms 
How the feasting fumes* 
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ' 
The butterflies come aping 
I hose fine thieves of ours, 
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled 
flowers w ; .th flowers. 
See those tops, how beauteous ! 
What fair service duteous 
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine 
Elfin court ’tvvould seem ; 
And taught, perchance, that dream 
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon 
nights divine. 
To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not; 
\ et there dies no poorest weed, that such a glorj 
exhales not. 
