84 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
See (and scorn all duller 
Taste) how heav’n loves colour; 
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and 
green 
What sweet thoughts she thinks 
Of violets and pinks, 
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be 
seen: 
See her whitest lilies 
Chill the silver showers, 
And what a red mouth is her mse, the woman of 
her flowers. 
Uselessness divinest, 
Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use; 
Travellers, weary eyed, 
Bless us, far and wide; 
Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden 
truce: 
Not a poor town window 
Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian 
vaunting. 
Sagest yet the uses, 
Mix’d with our sweet juices, 
Whetner man or May-fly, profit oi tne balm, 
As fair fingers heal’d 
Knights from the oldan field 
