

THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 



























And thou art like that fairy thing, And 
Though gifted with a colder sky, Eat 
With scent and bloom, too pure to fling To see 
Before the passer by ; Ism 
Who, with the star-flowers of thine eyes, And 
Couldst brighten still the brightest lot, Toth 
Or, with thy fond and fragrant sighs, 
Make rich the poor man’s cot !— 
An English Ruth,—in good or ill, 
To follow wheresoe’er we roam, 
And hang thy precious garlands, still, | 
Amid the breath of home! 
—My weary heart! my weary heart! lhe dy 
It is a pleasant thing Mth bro 
T'o wander from the crowd apart, hones 
When faint, and chill’d, and cold thou wt wl 
And fold thy restless wing, On Mex 
Beside the sweet and quiet streams Tote e 
Where grow life's lily-bells,— Ds bea 
And peace—that feeds on happy dreams Ahem 
And utters music,—dwells—- 
And love, beside the gushing springs, Dae tha 
Like some young Naiad, sits and sings’ (nears 
Ueating 
To leave awhile the barren height, Aad oc 
Where thou, too long, hast striven ho bid 
As if the spirit’s wpward flight Oi tesg 
Had been the path to heaven ° Ve 
