POETRY OP FLOWERS. 
13 
THE DAISY. 
Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove a God is here ; 
The daisy, fresh from winter’s sleep, 
Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 
For who hut He, who arched the skies, 
And pours the day-spring’s living flood, 
Wondrous alike in all he tries, 
Could raise the daisy’s purple bud—- 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem ; 
Its border, nicely fringed, could spin ; 
And cut the gold-enamelled gem, 
That, set in silver, gleams within— 
Then fling it, unrestrained and free, 
O’er hill and dale and desert sod, 
That man, where’er he walks, may see, 
In every step, the stamp of God! 
Dr. Mason Good ( Epping ). 
' THE DEATH OF FLOWERS. 
How happily, how happily, the flowers die away ! 
Oh, could we hut retium to earth as easily as they ! 
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom, 
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. 
