There is a lesson in each _flower_, A story in each stream and bower; In every herb on which you tread Are written words, which, rightly read, Will lead you from earth’s fragrant sod, To hope, and holiness, and God. _Allan Cunningham._ When spring returns, the little children play, In the grave-yard of the cathedral grey, Busy as morning bees, and gather _flowers_-- Daisies and gold-cups--of the hurrying hours Thoughtless as unsolicitous, though time Speeds like a spectre, and their playful prime Bears on to sorrow. Angel! cry aloud! Speak of the knell, the grave-worm and the shroud! No! let them play! for solitude and care Too soon will teach them what poor mortals are. Yes! let them play, but as their thoughts expand, May smiling pity lead them by the hand, When they look up, and in the clouds admire The lessening shaft of that aërial spire, So be their thoughts uplifted from the sod, Where time’s brief _flowers_ they gather to their God. _W. Lisle Bowles._ This cottage door, this gentle gale, Hay-scented, whispering round, Yon path-side rose, that down the vale, Breathes incense from the ground, Methinks should from the dullest clod, Invite the thankful heart to God. But, Lord, the violet bending low, Seems better moved to praise; From us what scanty blessings flow, How voiceless close our days;-- Father, forgive us, and the _flowers_ Shall lead in prayer the vesper hours. _James T. Fields._ _Flowers!_ wherefore do ye bloom? --We strew the pathway to the tomb! _J. Montgomery._ God might have made the earth bring forth Enough for great and small-- The oak tree and the cedar tree, Without a _flower_ at all. He might have made enough, enough, For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have made no _flowers_. Our outward life requires them not, Then wherefore had they birth? To minister delight to man-- To beautify the earth; To whisper hope, to comfort man, Whene’er his faith is dim; For whoso careth for the _flowers_, Will care much more for him. _Mary Howitt._ “See,” said Marian unto me, Standing by the cressy brook, “How my wealth of _flowers_ increaseth; Have they not a pleasant look?” “Deeper still,” I said unto her, “There the ceaseless worm alway Feeds upon the living _flower_, Drooping, drooping to decay.” “Deeper yet,” said Marian, “Love, and thank the love that giveth; In the death of every one, Future wealth uncounted liveth.” _J. B. Kington._ FOLLY.