The Poetry of Flowers. 
45 
See her whitest Lilies 
Chill the silver showers, 
And what a red mouth is her Rose, the woman of 
her flowers! 
Uselessness divinest, 
Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, 'the teachers of the end of use ; 
Travellers, weary-eyed, 
Bless us far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prison thoughts we give sudden 
truce ; 
Not a poor town window 
Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian 
vaunting. 
Sagest yet the uses, 
Mixed with our sweet juices, 
Whether man or May-fly profit of the balm, 
As fair fingers healed 
Knights from the olden field, 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest 
calm. 
Even the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming ; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 
presuming. 
And oh 1 our sweet soul-taker, 
That thief, the honeymaker, 
What a house hath he by the thymy glen ! 
In his talking rooms 
How the feasting fumes, 
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ; 
