
















THE POETRY Of FLOWERS. 
Think of all these treasures 
Matchless works and pleasures 
Every one a marvel, more than thought van say 
Then think in what bright showers 
We thicken fields and bowers, 
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle 
wanton May: 
Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted, 
_ na all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as 
enchanted. 
Trees themselves are ours ; 
aa i 
Fruits are born of flowers . ‘ 
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the 
spring: 
Y 
The lusty bee knows well 
The news, and comes pell-mell, 
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome 
antheming. 
Beneath the very burthen 
Of planet-pressing ocean, 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace,—a thought 
for meek devotion. 
Tears of Pheebus,—missings 
Of Cytherea’s kissings, 
Have in vs been found, and wise men find them 
still ; 
D 
i 
And Na 
T 
i 
And the 
