86 THE POETRY Of FLOWERS. 
Think of all these treasures 
Matchless works and pleasures 
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say 
Then think in what bright showers 
We thicken fields and bowers, 
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 
wanton May: 
Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted, 
» jiq all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 
enchanted. 
Trees themselves are ours; 
Fruits are born of flowers ; 
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the 
spring: 
The lusty bee knows well 
The news, and comes pell-mell, 
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome 
antheming. 
Beneath the very burthen 
Of planet-pressing ocean, 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace,—a thought 
for meek devotion. 
Tears of Phoebus.—missings 
Of Cytherea’s kissings, 
Have in us been found, and wise men find then 
still; 
