106 
THE POETR i OF FLOWERS. 
The nodding Foxglove slumbers on her stalk; 
And fan-like ferns 
Seem poised still and sleepily, until 
The morn returns 
With singing-birds and beams of rosy light, 
To bid them dance and frolic in delight. 
The drowsy Poppy, who has all the day 
Proudly outspread 
His scarlet mantle, folds it closely now 
Around his head; 
And, lull’d by soothing balm that his own leavej 
distil, 
Sleeps while the night-dews fall upon the moon¬ 
lit'hill. 
The fragrance is the spirit of the flower, 
E’en as the soul 
[s our ethereal portion. We can ne’er 
Hold or control 
One more than other. Passing sweet must be 
The visions, gentle things, that visit ye ! 
How happily ye live in the pure light 
Of loveliness! 
Do ye not feel how deeply—wondrously- 
Ye cheer and bless. 
Our checker’d sojourn on this weary earth, 
Whose wildest, drearirst spots to Flowers have 
given birth ? 
