102 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
Dropped from her, fair and mute, 
Close to a poet’s foot, 
Who beheld them, smiling lowly, 
As at something sad yet holy : 
Said, “ Verily and thus, 
So chanceth e’er with us, 
Poets, ringing sweetest snatches, 
While deaf men did keep the watches. 
“Saunting to come before 
Our own age evermore, 
In a loneness, in a loneness, 
And the nobler for that oneness. 
‘ ‘ But if alone we be 
Where is our empiry ? 
And if none can reach our stature, 
Who will mate our lofty nature ? 
‘' What bell will yield a tone 
Save in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing, 
Who can bear the chimed ringing ? 
‘ ‘ What angel but would seem 
To sensual eyes glent-dim? 
And without assimilation, 
Vain is interpenetration 1 
‘ ‘ Alas ! what can we do, 
The Rose and poet too, 
Who both antedate our mission 
In an unprepared season ? 
“Drop, leaf—be silent, song— 
Cold things we came among ! 
We must warm them, we must warm them, 
Ere we even hope to charm them. 
