THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 93 
Here do I love to be,— 
; dwell | 
ine eye a ilone in passiona te Jove to dwell | 
yneliness and purity 1} 
Of every bud and bell. || 

non the 
:0n ti 
sar brook, where the long benuet dips ! 
Dy Se ole 
To press the rose-bud in oh purity | 
Unto the-burning lips 
To lay the weary head 
Upon the bank, with daisies all beset, | 
Or with bared feet, at early dawn to tread 
O’er mosses coal and wet! | 
And then to sit, at noon, | 
When bees are humming low, and birds are still, {| 
And drowsy is the faint uncertain tone | 
Of the swift woodland rill. 
| 
And dreams can then reveal ll 
That, wordless though ye be, ye have a tone 
& language and a power, that I may feel, 
Thrilling my spirit lone. 
Ye appne of Bere and Love, 
h 
Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfumes | 
ef clans geful, fog thoughts, eta ightly mave | 
Men’ s hearts amidst their gloom. 



