TO A FLOWER. 
The central flowery kingdom was thy home, 
And thou, a witness of its light and bleom, 
Art sent of Heaven, if not of men, to roam, 
Imprisoned darkly in a fragrant tomb, 
And tossed upon the surging ocean’s foam, 
Until, enshrined within a student’s room, 
Thy crushed and brittle leaflets are unfurled 
To greet the sunhine of a Western World. 
Oh, that thy quickened life could flow again, 
And that we knew the silent thoughts of flowers! 
Thy deep-blue eyes and leafy lips would then 
Declare if other skies are sweet as ours— 
Would speak of wondrous climes beyond our ken, 
And wile away the silver-sandaled hours 
With many tales of that mysterious land, 
Around whose breadth the walls of ages stand. 
And yet ‘tis not because an unknown soil 
Bore thee, that thou to me a treasure art; 
For there man’s lot is no less one of toil; 
He bears about the self-same human heart. 
He knows the same sweet peace or wild turmoil, 
And frets out life in camp, and court, and mart; 
The same winds blow, no other sunlight warms, 
And all is Nature’s self in other forms. 










