






















VERS, 
hilly dy 
bowen, 
Ave, 
md ling 
sh broy 
breath 
eaves fl 
fe, blow 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Here do I love to be,— 
Mine eye alone in passionate love to dwell 
pon the loneliness and purity 
Of every bud and bell. 
Oh blessedness, to lie, 
By the clear brook, where the long benuet dips ! 
To press the rose-bud in its 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 cool and wet! 
And then to sit, at noon, 
When bees are humming low, and birds are atill, 
And drowsy is the faint uncertain tone 
Of the swift woodland rill. 
And dreams can then reveal 
That, wordless though ye be, ye have a tone 
A language and a power, that I may feel, 
Thrilling my spirit lone. 
Ye speak of Hope and Love, 
Bright as your hues, and vague as your perfume ; 
Of changeful, fragile thoughts, that brightly move 
Men’s hezrts amidst their gloom. 




