THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 87 
Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus’ curls, 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish till: 
Thy red lip, Adonis, 
Still is wet with morning ; 
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier 
adorning. 
0 ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables, 
And the flowers are true things,—yet no fables 
they ; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore,— 
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old 
pathway: 
Grossest hand can test us ; 
Fools may prize us never:— 
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,—marvels sweet 
for ever. 
Who shall say, that flowers 
Dress not heaven’s own bowers? 
Wh) its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet 
floor ? 
Who shall even dare 
To say, we sprang not there,- 
And came not down that Love might bring ona 
piece of heaven the more ? 
