8$ THE FOETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Central depth of purple, 
Leaves more bright than rose,— 
Who shall tell what brightest thought 
Out of darkest grows ? 
Who, through what funereal pain, 
Souls to love and peace attain ? 
Visions aye are on us, 
Unto eyes of power; 
Pluto’s always-setting sun, 
And Proserpine’s bower: 
There, like bees, the pale souls come 
For our drink, with drowsy hum. 
Taste, ye mortals, also; 
Milky-hearted, we ;— 
Taste, but with a reverent care, 
Active-patient be. 
Too much gladness brings to gloom 
Those who on the gods presume. 
CHORUS. 
We are the sweet flowers, 
Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene’er you see us, what our beaut* 
saith 
Utterance, mute and bright, 
Of some unknown delight, 
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple 
bleath: 
