
FLOWERS. 
Maiden—do not you 
Often wish you were a flower, 
Spending one or two 
Merry days in greenwood bower, 
As the Harebells do ; 
Dancing, and waving, and ringing in glee 
Over the moorland and over the lea? 
Daintily bend we our honeyed bells 
While the gossipping bee her story tells, 
And drowsily hums and murmurs on ~ 
Of the wealth to her waxen store-house gone, 
And though she gathers our sweets the while 
We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. 
Darting about, 
Now in, now out, 
Aloft, adown, in angles, rings, 
| And every form of swiftest flight, 
y Like arrows, guided by glittering wings, 
The dragon-flies play in the sunshine 
bright, 


