198 
There is romance in every stem that bends 
In motion soft 
Beneath the wind that rustles in the tall 
Tree-tops aloft. 
And mid their branches whistlingly doth blow. 
While it but fans the flowers that sleep below. 
We know they sleep; at eve the daisy small 
Foldeth all up 
Her blush-tipped rays; and the wave’s empress* hides 
Her star-lit cup: 
And each fair flower, though some with open eye. 
Listens and yields to nature’s lullaby. 
The nodding Foxglove slumbers on her stalk; 
And fan-like ferns 
Seem poised still and sleepily, until 
The morn returns 
With singing birds and beams of rosy light. 
To bid them dance and frolic in delight. 
The drowsy Poppy, who has all the day 
Proudly outspread 
His scarlet mantle, folds it closely now 
Around his head; 
And, lulled by soothing balm that his own leaves distil. 
Sleeps, while the night dews fall upon the moonlit hill. 
* The Water-lily. 
