Flowers—well, if anybody
Can the ecstacy define,
Half a transport, half a trouble,
With which flowers humble men—
Anybody find the fountain,
From which floods so contra flow,
I will give him all the Daisies,
Which upon the hill-side blow!
Too much pathos in their faces,
For a simple breast like mine!
Butterflies from San Domingo,
Cruising round the purple line,
Have a system of esthetics
Far superior to mine!