




THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
That in these days your praises should be sung 
On many harps, which he has lately strung ; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses, 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
So haply wien I rove in some far vale, 
His mighty voice may come upen the gale. 
Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight : 
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things, 
‘To bind them all about with tiny rings. 
What next ? a turf of evening primroses, 
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleen, 
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers. 
—_—p——— 
THE JASMINE, 
BY MOORE. 
“T'was midnight—through the lattice wreath'd 
With woodbine, many a perfume breathed 
From plants that wake when others sleep; 
From timid jasmine buds that keep 
Their odour to themselves all day ; 
But when the sunlight dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roams about. 

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