







The Poetry of Flowers. 

For dull the eye, the heart is dull 
That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty, beautiful 
Thy tender blossoms are ! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 
How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice when woods are still, 
And thou sing’st hymns to them ; 
While silent showers are falling slow, 
And, ’mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
Lone whispering through the bush |! 
The Primrose to the grave is gone; 
The Hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The Violet by the mossed grey stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, Wild Bramble, back dost bring, 
In ail their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 
And boyhood’s blossomy hour, 
Scorned Bramble of the brake! once more 
Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 


