













235 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The sun that used to smite thee, 
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, M 
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to “A 
burn,— 
If shining now,— with not a hue would light 
thee. 
The dew that used to wet thee, 
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because 
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,— 
If dropping now,—would darken where it 
met thee, 
BU 
The fly that lit upon thee, 
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet 
Along the leaf’s pure edges, after heat,— 
If lighting now,—would coldly overrun thee, 
The bee that once did suck thee, 
And build thy perfumed amber up his hive, 
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,— 
If passing now,—would blindly overlook thee. 
The heart doth recognise thee, 
Alone, alone ! 'The heart doth smell thee sweet, 
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most coms 
plete— 
Though seeing now those changes that. dis- 
guise thee, 
