DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 69 
THE FLOWER GARDEN. 
BARRY CORNWALL. 
There the rose unveils 
Her breast of beauty, and each delicate bud 
O’ the season comes in turn to bloom and perish. 
But first of all the violet, with an eye 
Blue as the midnight heavens; the frail snowdrop, 
Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow 
Fixed, like a pale and solitary star. 
The languid hyacinth and pale primrose. 
And daisy, trodden down like modesty; 
The foxglove, in whose drooping bells the bee 
Makes her sweet music ; the narcissus (named 
From him who died for love), the tangled woodbine. 
Lilacs, and flowering limes, and scented thorns, 
And some from the voluptuous June 
Catch their perfumings. 
