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The Poetry of Flowers. 
She then is scorned that late adorned the fair; 
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. 
No April can revive thy withered flowers, 
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now ; 
Swift, speedy time, feathered with flying hours, 
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow : 
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, 
But love now whilst thou may’st be loved again. 
TO THE DAISY. 
BY WORDSWORTH. 
In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill in discontent, 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make,— 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And nature's love of thee partake, 
Her much-loved Daisy! 
Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
That she may sun thee ; 
Whole summer-fields are thine by right; 
And Autumn, melancholy wight! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight, 
When rains are on thee. 
Be Violets in their secret mews 
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; 
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling; 
