And the flowers are true things—yet no fables they;
Fables were not more
Bright, nor loved of yore—
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway:
Grossest hand can test us;
Fools may prize us never:
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise—marvels sweet for ever.
Who shall say, that flowers
Dress not heaven’s own bowers?
Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor?