


























106 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The nodding Foxglove slumbers on he: stalk ; 
And fan-like ferns 
Seem poised still and sleepily, until 
The morn returns 
With singing-birds and beams of rosy ligh*, 
To bid them dance and frolic in delight. 
The drowsy Poppy, who has all the day 
Proudly outspread 
His scarlet mantle, folds it closely now 
Around his head ; 
And, lull’d by soothing balm that his own leaver 
distil, 
Sleeps while the night-dews fall upon the moon: 
lit hill. 
The fragrance is the spirit of the flower, 
E’en as the soul 
Is owr ethereal portion. We can ne’er 
Hold or control 
One more than other. Passing sweet must be 
The visions, gentle things, that visit ye! 
How happily ye live in the pure light 
Of loveliness ! 
Do ye not feel how deeply—wondrously 
Ye cheer and bless. 
Our checker’d sojourn on this weary earth, 
Whose wildest, drearisst spots to Frowers have 
given birth ? 

Donot ye j 
(pon your 
Which our 
hile port 
That wealt 
hveach sm 
Donot 
Dur harsh 
Oh! Pt 
Of memoy 
How yen 
Which ve 
Veloves 
Dttall pe 
7 
} 
Dnt foal 
Ve feel 
My, love 
