r 4 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
And the Hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
11 was felt like an odour within the sense. 
And the Rose, like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare. 
And the wand-like Lily, which lifted up, 
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky. 
And the Jessamine faint, and the sweet Tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows 1 
And all rare blossoms, from every clime, 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
And on the stream, whose inconstant bosom 
Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, 
With golden and green light, and, starting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 
Broad Water-lilies lay tremulously, 
And starry River-buds glimmered by, 
And around them the soft stream did glide and 
dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 
And the sinuous paths of lawn and moss, 
Which led through the garden along and across— 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees— 
Were all paved with Daisies and delicate bells, 
As fair as the fabulous Asphodels, 
