WHO SAID HE KNEW NO FLOWERS BUT THE IRIS AND THE BRIDAL-WREATH

Our brilliant Bishop says he never knows
Aught but the Iris and the Bridal-Wreath,
And yet his words do blossom like the breath
Of a most fragrant and redundant rose,
Whose scent shall linger with us, — for it blows
Its scattered petals while it perisheth,
Lavishing sweeter perfume in its death,
As a fair day is fairest at its close — !
May we not broaden, though, his floral scope
With Monk's-Hood and with pious Mitrewort
Whose fragile beauty foams in distant dells,
While Jacks-in-Pulpits, on the forest slope,
In surreptitious fashion, coyly flirt,
With careless clouds of Canterbury- Belles!