96 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Fresh smitten by thy morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play 
With kindred gladness: 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest, 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
t And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 
To thee am owing; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense— 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
Nor whither going. 
Child of the year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course,—when day’s begun, 
As ready to salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ;—thou not in vain 
Art nature’s favourite. 
• See, In Chaucer and the elder poets, the honours 
formerly paid to this flower. 
