44 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
All who see us love us, 
We befit all places— 
Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces races, 
Mark our ways, how noiseless 
All, and sweetly voiceless, 
Though the March-winds pipe to make our passage 
clear; 
Not a whisper tells 
_ Where our small seed dwells, 
Nor is known the moment green when our tips 
appear. 
We thread the earth in silence, 
In silence build our bowers, 
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, 
sweet flowers. 
The dear lumpish baby, 
Humming with the May-bee, 
Hails us with his bright star, stumbling through the 
grass ; 
The honey-dropping moon, 
On a night in June, 
Kisses our pale pathway leaves that felt the bride¬ 
groom pass. 
Age, the withered clinger, 
On us mutely gazes, 
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his child¬ 
hood’s daisies. 
See (and scorn all duller 
Taste) how Heav’n loves colour ; 
How great Nature clearly joys in red and green ; 
What sweet thoughts she thinks 
Of Violets and Pinks, 
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen. 
