
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
All is not gold that glitters, you know ; 
And ’tis not always worth makes the greatest 
show, 
In the glare of the strongest light ! 
There are human flowers, full many, I ween, 
As unlovely as that by your side, 
That the common observer passes by, 
With a scornful lip and a careless eye, 
In the heyday of pleasure and pride! 
But take one of these to some quiet spot, 
From the mid-day sun’s broad glare, 
Where peace and content brood with dove-like 
wing, 
And see if the homely despised thing 
May not yield sweet perfume there ; 
And judge not again at a single glance, 
Nor pass sentence hastily ; 
There are many bright things, in this world of 
ours, 
Rare weeds, and strange plants, that prove pres 
cious flowers, 
Little dreamt of by you, or by me. 

























