TO ****, WITH FLOWERS.
 
            Go, ye sweet messengers,
                To that dim-lighted room,
        Where lettered wisdom from the walls
                Sheds a delightful gloom;
 
            Where sits in thought profound,
                One in the noon of life,
        Whose flashing eye and fevered brow
                Tell of the inward strife;
 
            Who in those wells of lore,
                Seeks for the pearls of truth,
        And to Ambition's fever dream
                Gives his repose and youth.
 
            To him, sweet ministers,
                Ye shall a lesson teach, --
        Go in your fleeting loveliness
                More eloquent than speech.
 
            Tell him in laurel wreaths
                No perfume e'er is found,
        And that upon a crown of thorns
                Those leaves are ever bound.
 
            Thoughts fresh as your own hues
                Bear ye to that abode, --
        Speak of the sunshine and the sky,
                Of Nature and of God.