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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 237 
And pinks and clove-carnations, 
Rich scented, side by side ; 
And at each end a holly-hock, 
With an edge of London-pride. 
And here, on Sabbath evenings, 
Until the stars are out, 
With a little one on either hand, 
He walketh all about. 
For, though his garden-plot is small, 
Him doth it satisfy ; 
For there’s no inch of all his ground 
That does not fill his eye. 
It is not with the rich man thus; 
For, though his grounds are wide, 
He looks beyond, and yet beyond, 
With soul unsatisfied. 
THE FLOWER QUEEN. 
TELL me, sweet Sister, have you seen 
Earth’s fairest child—the Flower Queen ? 
The snow-drop raised her lovely head, 
To tell me Winter old was dead. 









