


















THE FOETRY OF FLOWERS, 
But out, alas, for her ! 
No thing did minister 
To her praises, to her praises, 
More than might unto a daisy’s, 
No tree nor bush was seen 
To boast a perfect green, 
Scarcely having, scarcely having 
One leaf broad enow for waving. 
The little flies did crawl 
Along the southern wall, 
Faintly shifting, faintly shifting 
Wings scarce strong enow for lifting, 
The nightingale did please 
To loiter beyond seas, 
Guess him in the happy islands, 
Hearing music from the silence. 
The lark too high or low, 
Did haply miss her so— 
With his crest down in the gorses, 
And his song in the star-courses! 
Only the bee, forsooth, 
Came in the place of both— 
Doing honour, doing honour, 
To the honey-dews upon her. 

























