"A tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers."

"Bountiful Primroses, With outspread heart that needs the rough leaves' care."

"Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on his bank he threw To mark his victory."

"A primrose by a river's brim, A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more."

"Primroses, the Spring may love them; Summer knows but little of them."

"The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives."

"And the saffron flower Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out."

"From the white-blossomed sloe, my dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn. No! by Heav'n, I exclaim'd, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn."

"Thou beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow ; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now ? This dim and sheltered alley Is dark with winter green ; Not such as in the valley At sweet spring-time is seen."

"At the head of Flora's dance; Simple Snow-drop, then in thee All thy sister-train I see; Every brilliant bud that blows, From the blue-bell to the rose; All the beauties that appear, On the bosom of the Year, All that wreathe the locks of Spring, Summer's ardent breath perfume, Or on the lap of Autumn bloom, All to thee their tribute bring."

"The morning star of flowers."

"Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!"

"Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise!"

"The pea is but a wanton witch In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand."

"Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings."

"Up climb’d the sweet pea, The butterfly of flowers:—I love it not, Though every hue—and it has many tints— Are dyed as if the sunset evening clouds Had fallen to the earth in sudden rain, And left their colours : purple, delicate pink, And snowy white, are on thy wing-like leaves; But thou art all too forward in thy bloom ; Thy blossoms are the sun’s, and cling to all That can support them into open day: And then they die, leaving no root behind, The hope and promise of another spring; And no perfume, whose lingering gratitude Remains round what upheld its summer’s life."

"Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we'll be. A foe had better brave the de'il Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather bell."

"When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down; O, then what joy to walk at will, Upon the golden harvest-hill!"

"The tuberose, with her silvery light, That in the gardens of Malay Is call'd the Mistress of the Night, So like a bride, scented and bright; She comes out when the sun's away."

"Violets! — deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale, — None by the dew of the twilight wet, So sweet as the deep-blue violet!"

"Though many a flower may win my praise, The violet has my love; I did not pass my childish days In garden or in grove: My garden was the window-seat, Upon whose edge was set A little vase—the fair, the sweet— It was the violet."

"Summer night, blossoming in the pond, water-lilies and stars"

"Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved sun's awake."

"The water-lily starts and slides Upon the level in little puffs of wind, Tho' anchor'd to the bottom."

"Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake; So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom, and be lost in me."

"Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils From land and water; lilies of each hue, , Golden and white, that float upon the waves, And court the wind."

"What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes : Can the wild water-lily restore."

"The slender water-lily Peeps dreamingly out of the lake; The moon, oppress'd with love's sorrow, Looks tenderly down for her sake."

"Broad water-lilies lay tremulously. And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance."

"Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying."

"Tears the Paphian shed, drop by drop for the drops of ’ Blood; and on earth each drop, as it fell, grew into a blossom: Roses sprang from the blood, and the tears gave birth to the wind-flower."

"Within the woods, Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast A shade, gray circles of anemones Danced on their stalks."

"Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers frail and fair."

"The little windflower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at."

"The spring, long retarded by previous cold, had now begun in all its comeliness, and life was rampant. Already, over the first emerald of the grass, the dandelion was showing yellow, and the red-pink anemone was hanging its tender head."

"Thy subtle charm is strangely given, My fancy will not let thee be, Then poise not thus 'twixt earth and heaven, O white anemone!"

"The starry, fragile windflower, Poised above in airy grace, Virgin white, suffused with blushes, Shyly droops her lovely face."

"Anemone, so well Named of the wind, to which thou art all free."

"From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemones, auritulas, enriched With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves."

"Thou lookest up with meek, confiding eye Upon the clouded smile of April's face, Unharmed though Winter stands uncertain by, Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace."

"When heaven's high vault condensing clouds deform, Fair Amaryllis flies the incumbent storm, Seeks with unsteady step the shelter'd vale, And turns her blushing beauties from the gale.— Six rival youths, with soft concern impress'd, Calm all her fears, and charm her cares to rest."

"Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew."

"I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed; Give me kind Amaryllis, The wanton country maid. Nature art disdaineth; Her beauty is her own."

"Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?"

"But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed."

"When poor Mama long restless lies She drinks the poppy's juice; That liquor soon can close her eyes, And slumber soft produce: O then my sweet, my happy boy Will thank the Poppy-flower, Which brings the sleep to dear Mama, At midnight's darksome hour."

"Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand."

"Not poppy nor mandragora Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday."

"Purpureus veluti cum flos succisus aratro Languescit moriens; lassove papavera collo Demisere caput, pluvia cum forte gravantur."

"I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! The flower of Mercy! that within its heart Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the Rose will idly blow , The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe."