
voman 
ie; 
- sudden 
yy loniar 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 8 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wild. 
est calm. 
Ev’n the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming ; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, thonal h death to the 
presuming. 
And oh! our sweet soul-taxer, 
That thief, the honey maker, 
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! 
In his talking rooms 
How the feasting fumes, 
Till the gold cups over flow 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 mountain dreamt, upon 
nights divine. 
To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not; 
¥et there dies no poorest weed, thet ‘ such a glory 
exhales not. 





















