THE poetry 
FLOWERS 
laps in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, 
The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild, 
As are the momentary meteors sent 
Across the uncalm, but beauteous firmament; 
And then her look —oh! where’s the heart so wise, 
Could unbewildered meet those matchless eyes? 
Moore. 
YOU ARE MY DIVINITY. 
AMERICAN COWSLIP. 
Smile like a knot of cowslips on the cliff. 
Blair. 
The elegant stem of a single root of this plant springs from 
the centre of a rosette of large leaves crouched on the earth. 
In April it is crowned with twelve pretty flowers with the cups 
reversed. Linnmus has given it the name of “ Dodecatheon,” 
which signifies “ twelve divinities,” a name, perhaps, some¬ 
what too extravagant for a small plant so modest in its appear¬ 
ance. An American writer says of them, in their indigenous 
soil, that they resemble a cluster of bright yellow polyanthuses. 
“ Our gold cowslips,” he adds, “ look like a full branch of large 
clustering king-cups: they carelessly raise themselves on their 
firm stalks, their corollas gazing upward to the changing spring 
sky, as they grow amid their pretty leaves of vivid green. 
They adorn almost every meadow, and shed a glow of beauty 
wherever they spring.” 
