74 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them 
Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 
A filbert edge, with wild-brier overtwined, 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
Upon their summer thrones ; there, too, should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters, 
Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters, 
The spreading blue-bells : it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly 
By infant hands left on the path to die. 
Open afresh your round of starry folds, 
Ye ardent marigolds! 
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 
For great Apollo bids 
That in these days your praises should be sung 
On many harps, which he has lately strung ; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses, 
Tell him I have you in my world of blisses : 
So, haply, when I rove in some far vale, 
His voice may come upon the gale. 
Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight, 
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things, 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 
What next ? a turf of evening primroses, 
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers. 
