38 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
And now with folded drooping leaves, 
Thou seemest for that light to mourn, 
Like unto one who fondly grieves 
The hours that stay some friend’s return. 
We cannot trace the hidden power 
Which folds thine azure petals up, 
When evening shadows dimly lower, 
And dewdrops gem each flow'ret’s cup. 
Methinks I should not wish to be 
Like thee, a votary of the sun— 
To bask beneath his beams, yet flee 
Whene’er his brilliant race is run. 
Oh ! dearer far the silent night, 
And lovelier far the starlit sky, 
Than gaudy day with sunbeams bright, 
And loud with Nature’s minstrelsy. 
The night-bird’s song is not for thee, 
The beautiful, the silver moon, 
The holy calm o’er flowers and tree, 
The stillness—Nature's dearest boon. 
Thou art a reveller of day, 
A fair, rejoicing child of light; 
Glad while the sunbeams o’er thee play, 
But drooping in the quiet night. 
Like unto those who freely spend 
Their kindness in our happier hours ; 
But, should affliction want a friend, 
They prove the sun’s adoring flowers. 
