

The Poetry of Flowers. 


So still and secret is her growth, 
Ever the truest heart, 
Where deepest strikes her kindly root, 
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 
Least known its happy part. 
God only, and good angels, look 
Behind the blissful screen— 
As when, triumphant o’er His woes, 
The Son of God by moonlight rose, 
By all but heaven unseen : 
As when the Holy Maid beheld 
Her risen Son and Lord: 
Thought has not colours half so fair, 
That she to paint that hour may dare 
In silence best adored. 
The gracious dove, that brought from heaven 
The earnest of our bliss, 
Of many a chosen witness telling, 
Of many a happy vision dwelling, 
Sings not a note of this, 
So, truest image of the Christ, 
Old Israel’s long-lost Son, 
What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 
He called His conscious brethren near, 
Would weep with them alone, 
He could not trust his melting soul 
But in His Maker's sight— 
Then why should gentle hearts and true 
Bare to the rude world’s withering view 
Their treasures of delight? 


