The Poetry of Flowers. 
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But Love did not know—and at his weak years, 
What urchin was likely to know ?— 
That sorrow had made of her own salt tears 
That fountain which murmured below. 
He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste, 
As boys when impatient will do ; 
It fell in those waters of briny taste, 
And the flowers were all wet through. 
Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day ; 
And though it all sunny appears 
With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say, 
Still tastes of the fountain of tears. 
TO A CROCUS.* 
BY BERNARD BARTON. 
Welcome, mild harbinger of Spring ! 
To this small nook of earth , 
Feeling and fancy fondly cling 
Round thoughts which owe their birth 
To thee, and to the humble spot 
Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot. 
To thee—for thy rich golden bloom, 
Like heaven’s fair bow on high, 
Portends, amid surrounding gloom, 
That brighter hours draw nigh, 
When blossoms of more varied dyes 
Shall ope their tints to warmer skies. 
Growing up and blossoming beneath a Wallflower. 
