148 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
And the naiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous hells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green; 
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft and intense, 
It was felt like an odour within the sense! 
And the rose like a nymph to the hath addrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky ; 
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose. 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, 
Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than 
ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver— 
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; 
Radiance and odour are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful! 
