3° 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull 
That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty, beautiful 
Thy tender blossoms are ! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 
How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice when woods are still, 
And thou sing'st hymns to them ; 
While silent showers are falling slow, 
And, ’mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
Lone whispering through the bush 1 
The Primrose to the grave is gone; 
The Hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The Violet by the mossed grey stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, Wild Bramble, back dost bring, 
In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, 
And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorned Bramble of the brake 1 once more 
Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
