POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
69 
Lover from lover, in their early wooing, 
When even the rainbow their dew’d eyes transcend; 
For our adornment merely — oh! ’twere doing 
Sweet creatures bitter wrong, with our worst woes 
enduing. 
At least, for conscience-sake, I’ll not believe 
That they are sensible to hearted feeling ; 
For in no creature’s being would I weave 
Those griefs which even now I am revealing 
In tears and sighs, from lips and eyelids stealing — . 
Sad rain and wind of my heart’s laden cloud !— 
By which, if they do feel, with wounds unhealing 
Their parted spirits must be cleft and bow’d 
Till they grew pale and sere, and wore death’s com¬ 
mon shroud. 
Then, to the lover’s and the poet’s warning 
Attend, as to a Delphic oracle : 
When flowers into the grey eyes of the morning 
Peer in awaken’d beauty from Night’s cell: 
On the warm heart of Noontide when they dwell; 
Or close in loveliness at Twilight’s feet— 
They gave their thoughts and dreams; and thou 
dost quell 
A gentle spirit in each blossom sweet 
(Which its love-conscious mates for ever pine to greet— 
And pine in vain!) which thy small hand doth sunder 
From its green birth-place!—Art thou of those 
that sleep 
