THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 87 
Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus’ curls, 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish till: 
Thy red lip, Adonis, 
Still is wet with morning; 
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy oriel 
adorning, 
O ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables, 
And the flowers are true things,—yet no fables 
they ; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore,— 
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old 
pathway: 
Grossest hand can test us ; 
Fools may prize us never 
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,—marvels sweet 
for ever. 
Who shall say, that flowers 
Dress not heaven’s own bowers? 
Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet 
floor? 
Who shall even dare 
To say, we sprang not there,- 
And came not down that Love might bring one 
piece of heaven the more ? 
