62 the poetry of flowers. 
When true hearts lie wither’d 
And fond ones are flown, 
Oh ! who would inhabit 
This cold world alone ? 
THE RHODORA. 
LINES or BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER I 
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook; 
The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 
Made the black waters with their beauty gay; 
Young Raphael might covet such a school; 
The lively show beguiled me from my way. 
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Dear, fell them, that if eyes were made for seeing 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose ! 
I never thought to ask, I never knew. 
But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, 
brought you. 
