







POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
A primrose tuft, transplanted, 
And watered every day, 
One yellow bud had opened, 
And then it pined away. 
I thought, as that child’s sorrow 
Rose wailing in the air, 
My heart gave forth an echo, 
Long bound in silence there. 
For though time brings us roses, 
And golden fruits beside, 
We've all some desert garden 
Where life’s first primrose dicd, 
FLOWERS. 
Bowrne adorers of the gale, 
Ye Cowslips, delicately pale, 
Upraise your loaded stems ; 
Unfold your cups in splendour, speak! 
Who decked you with that ruddy streak, 
And gilt your golden gems? 
Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, 
In purple’s richest pride arrayed, 
Your errand here fulfil; 
