POETRY OF FLOWERS. 89 
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
Waite bud! that in meek beauty so dost lean, 
The cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow, 
Thou seemest beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, 
An Eremite beneath his mountain’s brow. 
White bud ! thou’rt emblem of a livelier thing ,— 
The broken spirit that its anguish bears 
To silent shades, and there sits offering 
To Heaven, the holy fragrace of its tears. 
TO A DAISY. 
TuERE is a flower, a little flower, 
With silver crest and golden eye 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
And weathers every sky. 
The prouder beauties of the field 
In gay but quick succession shine, 
Race after race their honours yield, 
They flourish and decline. 
But this small flower, to nature dear, 
While moon and stars their courses run, 

