THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
a* 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wild 
est calm. 
Ev’n the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 
presuming. 
And oh! our sweet soul-taiser, 
That thief, the honey maker, 
What a house hath he, by the thy my glen! 
In his talking rooms 
How the feasting fumes, 
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men < 
The butterflies come aping 
Those fine thieves of ours, 
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled 
flowers with flowers. 
See those tops, how beauteous ! 
What fair service duteous 
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine 
Elfin court ’twould seem ; 
And taught, perchance, that dream 
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon 
nights divine. 
To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not; 
Vet there dies no piorest weed, that such a glory 
exhales not. 
