102 
POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And if I sleep, then pierceth he 
With pretty slight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee 
The live-long night; 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string j 
He music plays if I but sing; 
He lends me every lovely thing, 
Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting,” 
PANSIES, 
“ That’s for thoughts.” 
CHILDHOOD. 
Sister, arise, the sun shines bright. 
The bee is humming in the air, 
The stream is singing in the light, 
The May-buds never looked more fair; 
Blue is the sky, no rain to-day: 
Get up, it has been light for hours, 
And we have not began to play, 
Nor have we gather’d any flowers. 
Time, who looked on, each accent caught, 
And said, “He is too young for thought.” 
