12 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that 
swingeth, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 
Not to the domes where crumbling arch and 
column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned. 
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
supply; 
Its choir the winds and waves—its organ thunder- 
Its dome the sky. 
There as in solitude and shade I wander, 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon 
the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preach¬ 
ers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 
