Dear friend, love well the flowers! Flowers are the sign
Of Earth’s all gentle love, her grace, her youth,
Her endless, matchless, tender gratitude.
When the Sun smiles on thee,—why thou art glad:
But when on Earth he smileth, _She_ bursts forth
In beauty like a bride, and gives him back,
In sweet repayment for his warm bright love,
A world of flowers. You may see them born
On any day in April, moist or dry,
As bright as are the Heavens that look on them:
Some sown like stars upon the greensward; some
As yellow as the sunrise; others red
As Day is when he sets; reflecting thus,
In pretty moods, the bounties of the sky.
And now, of all fair flowers, which lovest thou best?
The Rose? She is a queen, more wonderful
Than any who have bloomed on Orient thrones:
Sabæan Empress! in her breast, though small,
Beauty and infinite sweetness sweetly dwell,
Inextricable. Or dost dare prefer
The Woodbine, for her fragrant summer breath?
Or Primrose, who doth haunt the hours of Spring,
A wood-nymph brightening places lone and green?
Or Cowslip? or the virgin Violet,
That nun, who, nestling in her cell of leaves,
Shrinks from the world, in vain?
Yet, wherefore choose, when Nature doth not choose,
Our mistress, our preceptress? _She_ brings forth
Her brood with equal care, loves all alike,
And to the meanest as the greatest yields
Her sunny splendours and her fruitful rains.
Love _all_ flowers, then. Be sure that wisdom lies
In every leaf and bloom; o’er hills and dales;
And thymy mountains; sylvan solitudes,
Where sweet-voiced waters sing the long year through;
In every haunt beneath the Eternal Sun,
Where Youth or Age sends forth its grateful prayer,
Or thoughtful Meditation deigns to stray.