
as 

The Poetry of Flowers. 

The lark too high or low, 
Did haply miss her so— 
With his crest down in the gorses, 
And his song in the star-courses ! 
Only the bee, forsooth, 
Came in the place of both— 
Doing honour, doing honour, 
To the honey-dews upon her, 
The skies looked coldly down, 
As on a royal crown; 
Then, drop by drop, at leisure, 
Began to rain for pleasure. 
Whereat the earth did seem 
To waken from a dream— 
Winter frozen, winter frozen, 
Her anguish eyes unclosing, 
Said to the Rose, ‘‘ Ha, Snow! 
And art thou fallen so? 
Thou who wert enthronéd stately 
Along my mountains lately. 
‘*Fullo, thou world-wide snow! 
And art thou wasted so? 
With a little bough to catch thee, 
And a little bee to watch thee?” 
Poor Rose, to be misknown? 
Would she had ne'er been blown, 
In her loneness, in her loneness, 
All the sadder for that oneness. 
Some words she tried to say, 
Some sigh—ah, well away ! 
But the passion did o’ercome her, 
And the fair frail leaves dropped from her. 
































