so 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Again 1 musing tread— 1 
Forgot my restless bed, 
And long, sick hours.—Too short the blessed 
dream! 
I woke to pain!—to hear the city’s din! 
But time nor pain shall ever steal 
Or youth or beauty from my mind, 
And blessings on ye, Flowers. 
Though few with me your hours, 
The youth and beauty, and the heart to feel, 
In her who sent you, ye will leave behind! 
—♦- 
THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 
BY SHELLY. 
PART I. 
A sensitive plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew; 
And it open’d its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 
And the spring arose on the garden fair, 
Like the spirit of love, felt every where ! 
And each flower and herb on earth’s dark breast 
from the dreams of >ts wintry rest. 
