

The Poetry of Flowers. 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the Daffodils. 

ADONIS’ COUCH. 
BY JOHN KEATS. 
On a silken couch of rosy pride, 
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
Of fondest beauty ; fonder in fair sooth 
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach 
And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, 
Or ripe October's faded Marigolds, 
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds— 
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve 
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tending swerve 
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light ; 
But rather giving them to the filled sight 
Officiously. Sideway his face reposed 
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, 
By tend’rest pressure, a faint damask mouth, 
To slumb’ry pout ; just as the morning south 
Disparts a dew-lipped rose. Above his head 
Four lily stalks did their wide honours wed 
To make a coronet ; and round him grew 
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 
Together intertwined and trammelled fresh : 
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, 
Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine, 
Of velvet leaves and bugle blooms divine ; 
Convolvulus in streakéd vases flush ; 
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush 
