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The Poetry of Flowers. 
Tread not thou on my snaky eyes ! 
I am the worm that the weary prize, 
The Nile's soft asp, 
That they strive to grasp, 
And one that a queen has loved to clasp ! 
Pity me ! I am she whom man 
Hath hated since ever the world began ; 
I soothe his brain, 
In the night of pain, 
But at morning he waketh—and all is in vain. 
THE LAY OF THE ROSE. 
BY ELIZABETH BROWNING BARRETT. 
“Discordance that can accord; 
And accordance to discord.” 
The Rcmaunt of the Rose. 
A Rose once passed within 
A garden, April-green, 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
And the fairer for that oneness. 
A white Rose, delicate, 
On a tall bough and straight, 
Early comer, April comer, 
Never waiting for the Summer ; 
Whose pretty gestes did win 
South winds to let her in, 
In her loneness, in her loneness, 
All the fairer for that oneness. 
“ For if I wait,” said she, 
“Till times for roses be, 
For the musk Rose, and the moss Rose, 
Royal red and maiden blush Rose, 
