The Poetry of Flowers. 
More frequent than the host of night, 
Those earth-born stars, as sages write, 
Their brilliant discs unfold ; 
Fit symbol of imperial state, 
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate, 
And crowns of burnished gold. 
But not the less, sweet spring-tide’s flower, 
Dost thou display the Maker’s power, 
His skill and handiwork ; 
Our western valleys’ humbler child, 
Where, in green nook of woodland wild, 
Thy modest blossoms lurk. 
What though nor care nor art be thine, 
The loom to ply, the thread to twine, 
Yet born to bloom and fade, 
Thee to a lovelier robe arrays, 
Than, e’en in Israel’s brightest days, 
Her wealthiest kings arrayed. 
Of thy twin-leaves the embowered screen, 
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green, 
Thy Eden-breathing smell; 
Thy arched and purple-vested stem, 
Whence pendent many a pearly gem, 
Displays a milk-white bell; 
Instinct with life thy fibrous root, 
Which sends from earth the ascending shoot, 
As rising from the dead, 
And fills thy veins with verdant juice, 
Charged thy fair blossoms to produce, 
And berries scarlet red ; 
The triple cell, the twofold seed, 
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed, 
Whence aye thy race may grow, 
