112 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
I hail thy coming, gentle flower, 
Not simply that thou com’st alone; 
Thou’rt weleome to me as the hour 
That shines as those of youth have shone. 
Fair herald of the blooming year, 
Life’s messenger without its stain,' 
The promised time of flowers is near, 
And earth shall soon be green again. 
’Tis thine to tell of joyous spring, 
When earth unlocks its fragrant stores, 
And gentle winds are breathed to bring 
The wandering birds from distant shores. 
Over the world’s deep solitude 
A bright and gladdening smile is cast, 
And if a thought of gloom intrude, 
’Tis of the winter that is past. 
Anon. 
THE SNOWDROP. 
ii. 
The snowdrop! ’tis an English flower, 
And grows beneath our garden trees, 
For every heart it has a dower, 
And old and dear remembrances ; 
All look upon it, and straightway 
Recall their youth of yesterday- 
