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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
And thou art like that fairy thing, 
Though gifted with a colder sky, 
With scent and bloom, too pure to fling 
Before the passer by; 
Who, with the star-flowers of thine eyes, 
Couldst brighten still the brightest lot, 
Or, with thy fond and fragrant sighs, 
Make rich the poor man’s cot!— 
An English Ruth,—in good or ill, 
To follow wheresoe’er we roam, 
And hang thy precious garlands, still, 
Amid the breath of home ! 
—My weary heart! my weary heart 1 
It is a pleasant thing 
To wander from the crowd apart, 
When faint, and chill’d, and cold thou vt 
And fold thy restless wing, 
Beside the sweet and quiet streams 
Where grow life’s lily-bells,— 
And peace—that feeds on happy dreams 
And utters music,—dwells— 
And love, beside the gushing springs, 
Like some young Naiad, sits and sin?*' 
To leave awhile the barren height, 
Where thou, too long, hast striven 
As if the spirit’s upward flight 
Had been the path to heaven • 
