34 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Thou must not, my beloved ! 
Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died ! 
TO A WILD FLOWER. 
In what delightful land, 
Sweet scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth? 
Thou art no offspring of the common earth, 
By common breezes fann’d. 
Full oft my gladden’d eye, 
1 In pleasant glade or river’s marge has traced, 
1 (As if there planted by the hand of taste), 
ate Sweet flowers of every dye. 
But never did I see, 
In mead, or mountain, or domestic bower, 
» ‘Mong many a lovely and delicious flower, 
i One half so fair as thee. 
Thy beauty makes rejoice 
My inmost heart. I know not how ’tis so— 
Quick coming fancies thou dost make me know 
For fragrance is thy voice. 

