THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. W* 
LOVE’S WREATH. 
BY MOORE. 
When Love was a child, and went idling round 
Among flowers the whole summer’s day, 
One morn in the valley a bower he foufid, 
So sweet, it allured him to stay. 
Q’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair, 
A fountain ran darkly beneath ; 
'Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers ui 
there, 
Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath. 
But Love did not know—and at his weak years. 
What urchin was likely to know ?— 
That sorrow had made of her own salt tears, 
That fountain which murmur’d below. 
He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste. 
As boys when impatient will do ; 
it fell in those waters of briny taste, 
And the flowers were all wet through. 
Yet this is the wreath he wears night and da' ; 
And though it all sunny appears 
With Pleasure’s own lustre, each leaf, they say, 
Still tastss of the fountain o° tears. 
