110 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Never at rest, like one that’s young, 
Abroad to the winds its arms it flung, 
Shaking its bright and crowned head, 
Whilst I stole up for its berries red— 
Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ! 
Hurrah ! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! 
Back I fly to the days gone by, 
And I see thy branches against the sky, 
I see in the grass thy blossoms shed, 
I see (nay, I taste) thy berries red, 
And I shout—like the tempest loud and free,— 
Hurrah ! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! 
But for a glowing rhapsody, commend us to the 
following, written by Richard Allison in 1606 
There is a garden in her face, 
Where roses and white lilies grow : 
A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
There cherries grow that none may buy 
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. 
Those cherries fairly do enclose 
Of orient pearl a double row, 
Which, when her lovely laughter shows, 
They look like rosebuds fill’d with snow; 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy 
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. 
Her eyes like angels watch them still, 
Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 
