The Poetry of Flowers. 
IOI 
The lark too high or low, 
Did haply miss her so— 
With his crest down in the gorses, 
And his song in the star-courses 1 
Only the bee, forsooth, 
Came in the place of both— 
Doing honour, doing honour, 
To the honey-dews upon her. 
The skies looked coldly down, 
As on a royal crown ; 
Then, drop by drop, at leisure, 
Began to rain for pleasure. 
Whereat the earth did seem 
To waken from a dream— 
Winter frozen, winter frozen, 
Her anguish eyes unclosing, 
Said to the Rose, “ Ha, Snow ! 
And art thou fallen so ? 
Thou who wert enthroned stately 
Along my mountains lately. 
“ Hullo, thou world-wide snow! 
And art thou wasted so ? 
With a little bough to catch thee, 
And a little bee to watch thee?" 
Poor Rose, to be misknown ? 
Would she had ne'er been blown, 
In her loneness, in her loneness, 
All the sadder for that oneness. 
Some words she tried to say, 
Some sigh—ah, well away ! 
But the passion did o’ercome her, 
And the fair frail leaves dropped from her. 
