






236 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
On mead or moor, where’er we be, 
Thy fringed cup we long to see. 
Here tipt with oriental dye, 
To witch and please th’ enamour’d eye, 
We love this pretty lovely flower, 
Simplest form in nature’s bower ; 
And though as some not half so gay, 
Thou art the gem of gen’rous May. 
Where’er we meet, in mead or bower, 
We claim this little English flower. 
Of thousands here more gaily drest, 
We love thee most—we love thee best. 
THE POOR MAN’S FLOWERS. 
ARowunND the rich man’s trellised bower 
Gay, costly creepers run : 
The poor man has his scarlet-beans 
To screen him from the sun. 
And there, before the little bench, 
O’ershadowed by the bower, 
Grow southernwood and lemon-thyme, 
Sweet-pea and gillyflower; 
