POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
37 
If to a rock from rains he fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie. 
Near the green holly. 
And wearily at length should fare; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art!—a friend at hand, to scare 
His melancholy. 
A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension; 
Some steady love, some brief delight; 
Some memory that had taken flight; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right; 
Or stray invention. 
If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee should turn, 
I drink out of an humbler urn 
A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure. 
When smitten by the morning ray, 
I see thee rise alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play 
