40 
FLOWERS BY THE POETS. 
LOVES-LIES-BLEEDING. 
You call it, “ Love-lies-bleeding,”—so yon may. 
Though the red flower, not prostrate, only droops. 
* * * * 
So drooped Adonis- bathed in- sanguine dew 
Of his death wound, when he from innocent air 
The gentlest breath of resignation drew. 
While Venus in a passion of despair 
Bent weeping over him', her golden hair 
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. 
WORBS WORTH. 
CELANDINE, 
* , * * * * 
There’s a flower that shall be mine, 
’Tis the little Celandine. 
* sjs * » a 
Prophet of delight and mirth. 
Ill-requited upon earth. Wordsworth. 
