THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. ii3 
Here do I love to be,— 
Mine eye alone in passionate love to dwell 
Upon the loneliness and purity 
Of every bud and bell. 
Oh blessedness, to lie, 
By the clear brook, where the long bennet dips ! 
To press the rose-bud in its purity 
Unto the burning lips! 
To lay the weary head 
Upon the bank, with daisies all beset, 
Or with bared feet, at early dawn to tread 
O’er mosses cool and wet i 
And then to sit, at noon, 
'When bees are humming low, and birds are still. 
And drowsy is the faint uncertain tone 
Of the swift woodland rill. 
And dreams can then reveal 
That, wordless though ye be, ye have a tone 
A. language and a power, that I may feel, 
Thrilling my spirit lone. 
Ye speak of Hope and Love, 
Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfume; 
Of changeful, fragile thoughts, that brightly move 
Men’s hearts amidst their gloom. 
