S TV E E T PEAS. 
(.Delicate Pleasures .) 
T is singular that few of our poets have celebrated 
these exquisite flowers. These pretty lines of 
Keats exactly portray them : 
“ Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; 
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things, 
To bind them all about with tiny rings.” 
TO THE SWEET PEA. 
Graceful flower, whose perfume lingers 
On the sense with odours strange, 
Climbing with thy fairy fingers 
Where the sunbeams freely range; 
Not the meanest aid disdaining 
Which may help thee in thy flight 
From the dull earth, upward straining 
To the realms of purer light. 
May we learn from thy sweet teaching 
To aspire—to climb—to rise ! 
Ever, like thee, eager reaching 
Hand and heart unto the skies. 
