54 THE POETRT OF FLOWERS. 
Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in ston 3 ; 
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-liko wings. 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 
And with child-like, credulous affection. 
We behold their tender buds expand;— 
Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 
