The Poetry of Flowers. 
115 
Two shapely leaves will first unfold ; 
Then on a smooth, elastic stem, 
The verdant bud shall turn to gold, 
And open in a diadem. 
Not one of Flora’s brilliant race 
A form more perfect can display ; 
Art could not feign more simple grace, 
Nor Nature take a line away. 
Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue, 
When flushing clouds through darkness 
strike, 
The Tulip’s petals shine in dew 
All beautiful, but none alike. 
TO BLOSSOMS. 
BY HERRICK. 
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay here yet awhile, 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 
What ! were ye born to be 
An hour or half's delight, 
And so to bid good-night? 
’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 
