POETRY OF FLOWERS. 91 
It opens with perenmial grace, 
And blossoms every where. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 
The Rose has but a summer’s reign, 
The Daisy never dies. 
AN APRIL DAY. 
WueEn the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
*Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 
The first flower of the plain. 
I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Now dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
The coming-on of storms. 
From the earth’s loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance and thrives; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold, 
The drooping tree revives. 
The softly warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured 
wings | 

