
ot 

The Poetry of Flowers. 

It was my pleasure and my npides — 
How I did watch its growth; 
For health and bloom what plans I tried, 
And often injured both ! 
I placed it in the summer shower, 
I placed it in the sun ; 
And ever at the evening hour, 
My work seemed half undone, 
The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew, 
How slow they seemed to be! 
At last there came a tinge of blue, 
"Twas worth the world to me! 
At length the perfume filled the room, 
Shed from their purple wreath ; 
No flower has now so rich a bloom— 
Has now so sweet a breath. 
I gathered two or three—they seemed 
Such rich gifts to bestow ! 
So precious in my sight, I deemed 
That all must think them so. 
Oh! who is there but would be fain 
To be a child once more, 
If future years could bring again 
All that they brought before? 
My heart’s world has been long o’erthrown ; 
It is no more of flowers: 
Their bloom is passed, their breath is flown ; 
Yet I recall those hours, 
Let Nature spread her loveliest, 
By spring or summer nurst : 
Yet still I love the Violet best, 
Because I loved it first. 


