138 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
But this bold floweret climbs the hill 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
Stays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox’s den. 
Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed; 
And blooms in consecrated ground 
In honour of the dead. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page :—in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms every where. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plair. 
Its humble buds unheeded rise; 
The rose has but a summer reign, 
The daisy never dies. 
