


















nute, 
ly, 
8, 
atches 
Shea an 

THE POEIRY OF FLOWERS 
“* Alas! what can we do, 
The rose and poet too, 
Who both antedate our mission 
In an unprepared season ? 
** Drop leaf—be silent song— 
Cold things we came among ! 
We must warm them, we must warm them 
Ere we even hope to charm them. 
“* Howbeit,’’ here his face 
Highten’d around the place, 
So to mark the outward turning 
Of his spirit’s inward burning. 
‘‘ Something it is to hold 
In God’s worlds manifold, 
First reveal’d to creatures duty, 
A new form of His mild beauty. 
‘* Whether that form respect 
The sense or intellect, 
Holy rest in soul or pleasance, 
The clef Beauty’s sign of presence. 
‘* Holy in me and thee, 
Rose fallen from the tree, 
Though the world stand dumb around us, 
All unable to expound us. 







