THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
245 
Their tendrils, vetch, or pea, or tare, 
At random; and with many a pair . 
Of leaflets green the brake embower, 
And many a pendant-painted flower. 
FLOWERS. 
BY ELIZABETH OAK SMITH. 
Each leaflet is a tiny scroll 
Inscribed with holy truth, 
A lesson that around the heart 
Should keep the dew of youth; 
Bright missals from, angelic throngs 
In every by-way left 
How were the earth of glory shorn 
Were it of flowers bereft! 
They tremble on the Alpine heights, 
The fissured rock they press, 
The desert wild with heat and sand, 
Shares too their blessedness ; 
And wheresoe’er the weary heart 
Turns in its dim despair, 
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks. 
Inviting it to prayer! 
