1HE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
All who see us love us,— 
We befit all places: 
Cnto sorrow we give smiles,—and unto graces, 
races 
Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless, 
Though the March-winds pipe, to make out 
passage clear; 
Not a whisper tells 
Where our small seed dwells, 
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips 
appear. 
We thread the earth in silence, 
In silence build our bowers,— 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh 
a-top, sweet flowers. 
The dear lumpish baby, 
Humming with the May-bee, 
Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through 
the grass; 
The honey-dropping moon, 
On a night in June, 
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the 
bridegroom pass. 
Age, the wither’d clinger, 
On us mutely gazes, 
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his 
childhood’s daisies. 
