The Poetry of Flowers. 
109 
Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed, by many a claim, 
The poet’s darling. 
If to a rock from rains he fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie 
Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art!—a friend at hand, to scare 
His melancholy. 
A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension; 
Some steady love, some brief delight, 
Some memory that had taken flight, 
Some chime or fancy wrong or right, 
Or strong invention. 
If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee should turn, 
I drink out of an humbler urn 
A lowlier pleasure; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life our nature breeds ; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure. 
Fresh smitten by thy morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower, my spirits play 
With kindred gladness: 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest, 
