ro2 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
Dropped from her, fair and mute, 
Close to a poet’s foot, 
Who beheld them, smiling lowly, 
As at something sad yet holy : 
Said, ‘ ‘ Verily and thus, 
So chanceth e’er with us, 
Poets, ringing sweetest snatches, 
While deaf men did keep the watches. 
“Saunting to come before 
Our own age evermore, 
In a loneness, in a loneness, 
And the nobler for that oneness. 
‘ ‘ But if alone we be 
Where is our empiry? 
And if none can reach our stature, 
Who will mate our lofty nature ? 
‘ 1 What bell will yield a tone 
Save in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing, 
Who can bear the chimed ringing ? 
‘ ‘ What angel but would seem 
To sensual eyes glent-dim? 
And without assimilation, 
Vain is interpenetration! 
‘' Alas! what can we do, 
The Rose and poet too, 
Who both antedate our mission 
In an unprepared season? 
‘' Drop, leaf—be silent, song— 
Cold things we came among ! 
We must warm them, we must warm them, 
Ere we even hope to charm them. 
