
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
TO PRIMROSES, 
FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 
Way do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears 
Speak griefin you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teem’d her refreshing dew ? 
Hid Alas ! you have not known that shower 
That mars a flower ; 
Nor felt the unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years; 
Or warp’d, as we 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 
Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known 
The reason why 
Ye droop, and weep; 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet ? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this? 
No, no ; this sorrow shewn 





















