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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
TO THE SWEET-BRIER. 
BY J.G. C. BRAINARD. 
Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind 
Robs of its odours none so sweet a flower, 
In all the blooming waste it left behind, 
As that sweet-brier yields it; and the shower 
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower 
One half so lovely; yet it grows along 
The poor girl’s pathway; by the poor man’s 
door. 
Such are the simple folks it dwells among ; 
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. 
I love it, for it takes its untouch’d stand 
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate ; 
Its sweetness all is of my native land ; 
And e’en its fragrant leaf has not its mate 
Among the perfumes which the rich and great 
Bring from the odours of the spicy Hast. 
You love your flowers and plants, and will you 
hate 
The little four-leaved rose that I love best, 
That freshest will awake, and sweetest go ta resté 


