THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
In the time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest, 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless prodigal; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we’ve little warmth, or non®. 
Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
Kindly unassuming Spirit! 
Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ;—there’s not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But ’tis good enough for thee. 
Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring hours! 
Butter-cups that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no; 
Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine! 
Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill requited upon earth; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
