The Poetry of Flowers. 
15 
And flow’rets which, drooping as day drooped too, 
Fell into pavilions white, purple, and blue, 
To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 
And from this undefiled paradise 
The flowers (as an infant’s awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), 
When heaven’s blithe winds had unfolded them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 
For each one was interpenetrated 
With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, 
Like young lovers, whom youth and love make dear, 
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 
But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver. 
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ; 
Radiance and odour are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love ; its deep heart is full ; 
It desires what it has not—the beautiful! 
The light winds which, from unsustaining wings, 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar;— 
The plumed insects, swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
Laden with fight and odour, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass;— 
