

The Poetry of Flowers. 

































‘‘T ween the very skies 
Will look down in surprise 
When low on earth they see me, 
With my cloudy aspect dreamy. 
‘Fen nightingales shall flee 
Their woods for love of me, 
Singing sadly all the suntide, 
Never waiting for the moontide ! 
‘«Three larks shall leave a cloud 
To my whiter beauty vowed, 
Singing gladly all the moontide, 
Never waiting for the suntide.” 
So praying did she win 
South winds to let her in, 
In her loneness, in her loneness, 
And the fairer for that oneness. 
But out, alas! for her, 
No thing did minister 
To her praises, to her praises, 
More than might unto a daisy’s. 
No tree nor bush was seen 
To boast a perfect green, 
Scarcely having, scarcely having 
One leaf broad enow for waving. 
The little flies did crawl 
Along the southern wall, 
Faintly shifting, faintly shifting 
Wings scarce strong enow for lifting. 
The nightingale did please 
To loiter beyond seas, 
Guess him in the happy islands, 
Hearing music from the silence. 
