6 
If ye do love that glorious book, whose leaves, 
Interminably spread before our eye's. 
Challenge our onward progress in its lore,— 
Small though our utmost grasp of it may be — 
Then will ye listen to the simple lyre. 
That now, with changeful tone, or gi’ave, or gay. 
Wakes its wild music to a gentle theme,— 
Gentle and sweet, — ’Tis The Romance of Flowers. 
