The Flowers

Weary and ill,
Fair messengers and sweet
They healthful thoughts and gracious hopes entreat,
Fragrant out breathings from some balmy hill,
Fresh from their sky-domed, leafy bowers,
Thrice blessed flowers!

Oppressive walls
Instinctively expand,
And sunny fields unfold on either hand,
As singing rills repeat the blithe bird calls.
We walk in breezy woodland bowers,
Seeing the flowers.

The burdened brain
Submissive to their spell
Is quick to heed the gentle tale they tell:
No baby blossom ever blooms in vain.
Borne from their dreamy, dewy bowers;
Cherish the flowers.