POETRY OF FLOWERS. $5 
And still it comes to me, 
Tn quiet night, and turmoil of the day, 
Like memory of friends gone far away, 
Or, haply, ceased to be. 
Together we'll commune, 
As lovers do, when, standing all apart, 
No one o’erhears the whispers of their heart, 
Save the all-silent moon. 
Thy thoughts I can divine, 
Although not uttered in vernacular words; 
Thou me remind’st of songs of forest birds; 
Of venerable wine; 
Of Earth’s fresh shrubs and roots; 
Of Summer days, when men their thirsting slaks 
tn the cool fountain, or the cooler lake, 
While eating wood-grown fruits. 
Thy leaves my memory tell 
Of sights, and scents, and sounds, that come 
again, 
Like ocean’s murmurs, when the balmy strain 
Is echoed in its shell. 
The meadows in their green 
Smooth running waters in the far- off ways, 
The deep-voiced forest, where the hermit prays, 
In thy fair face are seen. 

