






































THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Dropp’d from her, fair and mute, 
Close to a poet’s foot, 
Who beheld them, smiling lowly, 
As at something sad yet holy: 
Said ‘* Verily and thus, 
So chanceth e’er with us, 
Poets, ringing sweetest snatches, 
While deaf did men keep the watches 
‘* Saunting to come before 
Our own age evermore, 
In a loneness, in a loneness, 
And the nobler for that onencss. 
‘¢ But ifalone we be 
Where is our empiry ? 
And if none can reach our stature 
Who will mate our lofty nature ? 
‘¢ What bell will yield a tone 
Saving in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing, 
Who can bear the chiméd ringing ? 
‘* What angel but would seem 
To sensual eyes glent-dim ? 
And without assimilation, 
Vain is interpenetration ! 


Tt 
"Al 
The 
V 
ht 
hob 
all 
MK Dr 
Cold 
Wemu 
Ere we 
( 
Of 
= 
Soto n 
i 
Ihe 
Fits te 
Ho 
lh 
is 
Ni 
CW 

