





















The Poetry of Flowers. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned. 
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; 
Its choir the winds and waves—its organ thunder— 
Its dome the sky. 
There as in solitude and shade I wander, 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 
Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendour, 
‘Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” 
O may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender 
Your lore sublime ! 
‘Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Arrayed,” the lilies cry, ‘‘in robes like ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers !” 
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist ! 
With which Thou paintest Nature’s widespread hall, 
What a delightful lesson Thou impartest 
Of love to all! 
Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure, 
Blooming o’er field and wave by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 
