

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
THE WOODRUFF. 
Amp a thousand brighter flowers, 
We scarcely note thy tender bloom, 
When Summer’s heat and Spring-time’s showers 
Have called thee from thy winter tomb. 
But should we find thee withered, reft 
Even of the humble charms thou hast, 
We feel a fragrant sweetness left— 
A sweetness that no ill can blast. 
Thus modest worth remains unknown, 
While fairer beauty’s flatter’d name, 
On every zephyr’s breath has blown, 
A candidate for human fame. 
Let sorrow come—mere beauty now 
Has lost its advantitious power ; 
While chill’d, or bruised, or broken thon, 
Art fragrant in that trying hour. 


