40 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
In the season of the tulip cup, 
When blossoms clothe the trees. 
How sweet to throw the lattice up, 
And scent thee on the breeze! 
The Butterfly is then abroad, 
The bee is on the wing, 
And on the hawthorn by the road 
The linnets sit and sing. 
Sweet wall-flower—sweet wall-floweil 
Thou conjurest up to me, 
Full many a soft and sunny hour 
Of boyhood’s thoughtless glee ; 
When joy from out the daises grew 
In woodland pastures green, 
And summer skies were far more blue 
Than since they e’er have been. 
Now autumn’s pensive voice is heard 
Amid the yellow bowers, 
The robin is the regal bird, 
And thou the queen of flowers! 
He sings on the laburnum trees, 
Amid the twilight dim, 
And Araby ne’er gave the breeze 
Such scents as thou to him. 
Rich is the pink, the lily gay, 
The rose is summer’s guest; 
Bland are thy charms when these decay*' 
Of flowers, first, last, and best! 
