THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Thou livest with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy flame; 
Thou art indeed, by many a claim, 
The poet’s darling. 
If to a rock from rains we fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprison’d by hot sunshine lie 
Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art!—a friend at hand, to scare 
His melancholy. 
A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couch’d an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension; 
Some steady love; some brief delight; 
Some memory that had taken flight; 
Some chime or fancy wrong or right; 
Or strong invention. 
If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee should turn 
I drink out of an humble urn 
A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure. 
