




























The Poetry of Flowers. 

I know how softly bright, 
Steeped in that tender light, 
The Water-lilies tremble there e’en now ; 
Go to the pure stream’s edge, 
And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow |! 
/ Then, as in hope’s young days, 
Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 
There is a lone white Rose, 
Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o’er the emerald turf around. 
Well know’st thou that fair tree— 
A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honied lime above; 
Bring me one pearly flower 
Of all its clustering shower— 
For on that spot we first revealed our love. 
Gather one woodbine bough, 
Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, 
When by the hamlet last, 
Through dim wood-lanes we passed, ([spark. 
While dews were glancing to the glow-worm’s 
Haste! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair, 
Thy hand no more may bind them up at eve— 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft 
Of life, youth, summer—all that I must leave } 
And, oh! if thou would’st ask 
Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace, 


