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The Poetry of Flowers. 
‘‘ What glory then for me, 
In such a company? 
Roses plenty, roses plenty, 
And one nightingale for twenty ! 
‘“Nay, let me in,” said she, 
‘* Before the rest are free, 
In my loneness, in my loneness, 
All the fairer for that oneness. 
‘For I would lonely stand, 
Uplifting my white hand, 
On a mission, on a mission, 
To declare the coming vision. 
‘See mine, a holy heart, 
To high ends set apart— 
All unmated, all unmated, 
Because so consecrated. 
‘‘Upon which lifted sign, 
What worship will be mine ! 
What addressing, what caressing, 
What thanks, and praise, and blessing ! 
‘A wind-like joy will rush 
Through every tree and bush, 
Bending softly in affection, 
And spontaneous benediction. 
‘Insects, that only may 
Live in a sun-bright ray, 
To my whiteness, to my whiteness, 
Shall be drawn, as to a brightness, 
‘*And every moth and bee 
Shall near me reverently, 
Wheeling round me, wheeling o’er me, 
Coronals of motioned glory. 








