THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 8 | 
Q. 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wil 


est calm. 
7’n the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming ; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the 
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presuming. | 
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And oh! our sweet soul-taxer, 
That a the prey maker, | 
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! | 
In his talking rooms | 
How the feasting fumes, | 
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men: 
The butterflies come aping | 
Those fine thieves of ours, 
And flutter round our rifled tops, like ticklea 
flowers w’th flowers. 

See those tops, how beauteous! 
What fair service duteous 
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine 
Elfin court ’twould seem ; 
And taught, perchance, that dream | 
Which the old Greek facuniain dreamt, upon 
nignts divine. 
To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not; 
Yel there dies no poorest weed, thet such a glory | 
exhales not. 
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