224 
THE POETKY OF FLOWERS. 
The gracious dove, that brought from heavea 
The earnest of our bliss, 
Of many a chosen witness telling, 
On many a happy vision dwelling, 
Sings not a note of this. 
So, truest image of the Christ, 
Old Israel’s long-lost Son, 
What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 
He call’d his conscious brethren near, 
Would weep with them alone. 
He could not trust his melting soul 
But in his Maker’s sight— 
Then why should gentle hearts and true 
Bare to the rude world’s withering view 
Their treasures of delight ? 
No—let the dainty rose awhile 
Her bashful fragrance hide— 
Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
But leave her, in her own soft noon. 
To flourish and abide. 
