
























to8 The Poetry of Flowers. 

She then is scorned that late adorned the fair ; 
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. 
No April can revive thy withered flowers, 
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now ; 
Swift, speedy time, feathered with flying hours, 
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow : | 
Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, & 
But love now whilst thou may’st be loved again. 


SOY Isa, IOWA ES 
| BY WORDSWORTH. 
| IN youth from rock to rock I went, 
) | From hill to hill in discontent, 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And nature’s love of thee partake, 
Her much-loved Daisy ! 



SSS = 
Se —= 
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Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
That she may sun thee ; 
Whole summer-fields are thine by right ; 
And Autumn, melancholy wight! < 
Doth in thy crimson head delight, 
When rains are on thee. 
| 
Be Violets in their secret mews 
i | The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; 
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling ; f 
| 
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