82 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Central depth of purple, 
Leaves more bright than rose,— 
Who shall tell what brightest thought 
Out of darkest grows ? 
Who, through what funereal pai.i, 
Souls to love and peace attain ? 
Visions aye are on us, 
Unto eyes of power; 
Pluto’s always-setting sun, 
And Proserpine’s bower: 
There, like bees, the pale souls come 
For our drink, with drowsy hum. 
Taste, ye mortals, also; 
Milky-hearted, we ;— 
Taste, but with a reverent care, 
Active-patient be. 
Too much gladness brings to gloom 
Those who on the gods presume. 
Born of sunny showers, 
(Think, whene’er you see us, what our beaut’’ 
saith ^ 
Utterance, mute and bright, 
Of some unknown delight, 
We fill the air with pleasure, bv our simple 
breath: 
