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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, I47 
Should sometimes think, where’er they chance 
to spy 
This child of Nature’s own humility, 
What recompense is kept in store or left 
For all that seem neglected or bereft ; 
With what nice care equivalents are given, 
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven! 
WORDSWORTH. 

THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
Foys to come. 1 
gj HERE is a flower, the lesser Celandine, | 
That shrinks, like many more, from 
cold and rain ; 
And, the first moment that the sun may || 
shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, ’tis out again! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on 
swarm, 
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 



