There the rose unveils
    Her breast of beauty, and each delicate bud
    O’ the season comes in turn to bloom and perish,
    But first of all the violet, with an eye
    Blue as the midnight heavens, the frail snowdrop,
    Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow
    Fixed like a full and solitary star
    The languid hyacinth, and wild primrose
    And daisy trodden down like modesty
    The fox glove, in whose drooping bells the bee
    Makes her sweet music, the Narcissus (named
    From him who died for love) the tangled woodbine,
    Lilacs, and flowering vines, and scented thorns,
    And some from whom the voluptuous winds of June
    Catch their perfumings

Barry Cornwall

I take a second supply of flowers from the same hand

                                Here, this rose
    (This one half blown) shall be my Maia’s portion,
    For that like it her blush is beautiful
    And this deep violet, almost as blue
    As Pallas’ eye, or thine, Lycemnia,
    I’ll give to thee for like thyself it wears
    Its sweetness, never obtruding.  For this lily
    Where can it hang but it Cyane’s breast? 
    And yet twill wither on so white a bed,
    If flowers have sense of envy.—­It shall be
    Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris,
    Like one star on the bosom of the night
    The cowslip and the yellow primrose,—­they
    Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves,
    And April hath wept o’er them, and the voice
    Of March hath sung, even before their deaths
    The dirge of those young children of the year
    But here is hearts ease for your woes.  And now,
    The honey suckle flower I give to thee,
    And love it for my sake, my own Cyane
    It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou
    Hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow,
    It flourishes with its guardian growth, as thou dost,
    And if the woodman’s axe should droop the tree,
    The woodbine too must perish.

Barry Cornwall

Let me add to the above heap of floral beauty a basket of flowers from
Leigh Hunt.

    Then the flowers on all their beds—­
    How the sparklers glance their heads,
    Daisies with their pinky lashes
    And the marigolds broad flashes,
    Hyacinth with sapphire bell
    Curling backward, and the swell
    Of the rose, full lipped and warm,
    Bound about whose riper form
    Her slender virgin train are seen
    In their close fit caps of green,
    Lilacs then, and daffodillies,
    And the nice leaved lesser lilies
    Shading, like detected light,
    Their little green-tipt lamps of white;
    Blissful poppy, odorous pea,
    With its wing up lightsomely;
    Balsam with his shaft of amber,
    Mignionette for lady’s