bring 
rng, 
more 
RST 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 5] 
Flora paints each dewy bell. 
But lament, ye sweet spring blossoms, 
Soul hath never thrilled your bosoms, 
All in cheerless night ye dwell. 
Nightingale and lark are singing 
Many a lay of love to you: 
In your chaliced blossoms swinging, 
Tiny sylphs their sylphids woo: 
Deep within the painted bower 
Of a soft and perfumed flower, 
Venus once did fall asleep: 
But no pulse of passion darted 
Through your breast, by her imparted = 
Children of the morning, weep. 
When my mother’s harsh rejection 
Bids me cease my love to speak,— 
Pledges of a true affection, 
When your gentle aid I seek,— 
Then by every voiceless token, 
Hope, and faith unchanged, are spoken, 
And by you my bosom grieves: 
Love himself among you stealeth 
And his awful form concealeth, 
Shut within your folding leaves. 













