44 
POETBY OF FLOWERS. 
Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing, 
And in Snmmer’s green emblazoned field, 
But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing, 
In tbe centre of his brazen shield; 
Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink; 
Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But on old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone. 
In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient games of Flowers ; 
In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 
And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand; 
Emblems of our own groat resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 
Longfellow. 
