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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Just half a foot in height. 
All lovely colours there you see. 
All colours, that were ever seen ; 
And mossy net-work too is there; 
As if by hand of lady fair 
The work had woven been; 
And cups, the darlings of the eye, 
So deep is their vermilion dye. 
Ah me ! what lovely tints are there ! 
Of olive-green and scarlet bright, 
In spikes, and branches, and in stars 
Green, red, and pearly white! 
Wordsworth. 
THE MOSS ROSE.— Love. Voluptuousness. 
The angel of the flowers, one day, beneath a Rose-tree 
sleeping lay; 
Awaking from his light repose, the angel whispered to 
the Rose, 
“ 0 fondest object of my care, still fairest found, where 
all is fair; 
For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me, ask what thou 
wilt, ’tis granted thee !” 
“ Then,” said the Rose, with deepened glow, “ on me 
another grace bestow.” 
The spirit paused in silent thought:—What grace was 
there the flower had not P 
’Twas but a moment—o’er the Rose a veil of moss the 
angel throws; 
And robed in nature’s simplest weed, could there a 
flower that Rose exceed ? 
From the German. 
