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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 193 

‘Come over the meadow, and scent the fresh air, 
For the pure mountain breezes are everywhere. 
We'll follow this winding path up to the hills, 
And spring with a lightsome foot over the rills. 
Up, up—it grows sweeter the higher we get, 
With the flowers of the season that linger here 
yet. 
Nay, pause not to gaze at the landscape now ; 
It is finer when seen from the high hill’s brow. 
We will gather all curious flowers as we go; 
The sweet and the scentless, and those that bend 
lows 
‘The pale and the gaudy, the tiny, the tall, 
From the vine, from the shrub, we will gather 
them all. 
Now here’s the Clematis, all graceful and fair ; 
You may set it like pearls in the folds of your 
hair. 
And if for your bosom you’d have a bouquet, 
Here’s the Meadow-pink sweet, and the Touch- 
me-not gay. 
Here’s the full-blown Azalea, perfuming the air ; 
Here’s the Cardinal-flower, that a princess 
might wear ; 
And the wild mountain Phlox, pink, and purple, 
and blue, 
And Star-flowers both white and of golden hue. 
121 R 







