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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.