no 
The Poetry of Flowers , 
Thou sink st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 
To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense— 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
Nor whither going. 
Child of the year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course—when day's begun 
As ready to salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
dhan in old time;—thou not in vain 
Art Nature's favourite, 
LOVE’S WREATH. 
BY MOORE. 
When Love was a child, and went idling round 
Among flowers the whole summer’s day, 
One morn in the valley a bower he found, 
So sweet, it allured him to stay. 
O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair 
, A fountain ran darkly beneath ; Where 
Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up 
Love knew it and jumped at the wreath 
* See in Chaucer and the elder 
formerly paid to this flower. 
poets, the honours 
