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THE VOICE OF THE FLOWERS. 
BY MARY ANNE BROWNE. 
Blossoms, that lowly bend, 
Shutting your leaves from evening’s chilly dew 
While your rich odours heavily ascend, 
The flitting winds to woo. 
I walk at silent eve, 
When scarce a breath is in the garden bowers, 
And many a vision and wild fancy weave, 
’Midst ye, ye lovely flowers; 
Beneath the cool green boughs, 
And perfumed bells of the fresh blossom’d line, 
That stoop and gently touch my feverish brow 
Fresh in their summer prime ; 
Or in the mossy dell, 
Where the pale primrose trembles at a breath; 
Or where the lily, by the silent well, 
Beholds her form beneath ; 
