The spirit builds his house in the least flowers, —
A beautiful mansion; how the colors live,
Intricately delicate. Every night
An angel, for this purpose, from the heavens
With his small urn of ivory-like hue drops
A globular world of the purest element
In the flower's midst, feeding its tender soul
With lively inspiration. Wonder 'tis
That man will still want knowledge; is not here,
Spread in amazing wealth, a form too rare,
A soul so inward, that with open heart
Tremulous and tender, we must ever fear
Not to see near enough, of these deep things?