THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
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Do not ye joy to know the pure delight 
With which we gaze 
Upon your glorious forms 1 —Are ye not glad 
E’en in the praise 
Which our enraptured wonder ever tells 
While poring o’er the wealth that in ye dwells: 
That wealth of thought, of beauty, and of love, 
Which may be found 
In each small common herb that springs from out 
The teeming ground 1 
Do not ye feel that ye do deeply bless 
Our harsher souls by your dear loveliness ? 
Oh ! if ’tis given unto ye to know 
The thrilling power 
Of memories and thoughts that can be read 
E’en in a flower, 
How ye must all rejoice beneath each look 
Which reads your beauty, like an open book! 
We love its silent language : strong, though still, 
Is that unheard 
But all-pervading harmony:—it breathes 
No utter’d word, 
But floats around us, as, in happy dream, 
We feel the soft sigh of a waveless stream. 
Bo, love of nature’s harmony can bless 
And gladden ever 
