THE FLOWERS OF THE MEAD
How much to be wish’d that the flowers of the mead
The pleasures of converse could yield;
And be to our bosoms, wherever we tread,
The reasoning sweets of the field!
But silent they stand,—yet in silence bestow,5
What smiles, and what glances impart;
And give, every moment, Joy’s exquisite glow,
And the powerful throb of the heart.