THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
87 
Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus’ curls, 
Narcissus loves himself in the selfish till: 
Thy red lip, Adonis, 
Still is wet with morning; 
tho step, that bled for thee, the rosy briel 
adorning, 
0 ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables, 
the flowers are true things,—yet no fables 
they; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore,— 
the Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old 
pathway: 
Grossest hand can test us ; 
Fools may prize us never:— 
me Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,—marvels sweet 
for ever. 
Who shall say, that flowers 
[hi Dress not heaven’s own bowers? 
Whs its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet' 
p floor ? 
Who shall even dare 
To say, we sprang not there,- 
m And came not down that Love might bring one 
piece of heaven the more ? 
) 
say And 
stifle ? And 
And 
