S40 
THE POET it f OF FLOWERS. 
I know how softly bright, 
Steep’d in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there e’en now ; 
Go to the pure stream’s edge, 
And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever’d brow 
Then, as in hope’s young days. 
Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 
There is a lone white rose, 
Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o’er the emerald turf around. 
Well knowest thou that fair tree— 
A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honey’d lime above ; 
Bring me one pearly flower 
Of all its clustering shower— 
For on that spot we first reveal’d our love. 
Gather one woodbine bough, 
Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark 
When by the hamlet last, 
Through dim wood-lanes we pass’d, 
While dews were glancing to the glow-worm’ 
spark. 
