The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 43, Page 330
VI.
Flowers.
Welcome, oh pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer thoughts attendant on your bloom,
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that, look down on your folded bells
Thro' dewy leaves—of many a wild perfume
Greeting the wanderers of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye bring,
Far more: ye whisper of th' all-fostering love
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath,