By 
Ode to Spring (by Andrew Elliott)
Oh glory be to things that grow!
That burgeon, blossom, bud and blow
In Springtime’s light and airy breeze,
Which ruffles softly new sprung leaves.
What tongue there be to justly praise
The wonders wrought by Vernal days?
These beauties bright which turn, indeed,
Each frozen heart to flaming glede.
O Daffodil! O Daffodil!
That covers well each downy hill—
E’en Solomon was not arrayed
In splendour such as you displayed.
Ah! Lovely Tulip, what to you
Is all the wealth of Timbuktu?
What, then, the gain of dye from Tyre—
When Gladdons blaze with purple fire?
Thou Cowslip and thou Daisy fair—
Thou Foxglove, Rose, and Lily rare—
Much more is your surpassing worth
Than all the gems throughout the earth!
Consider well what ecstasy
Lies cloistered in each Peony—
That dormant wait until the hour
Their chains are loosed, then start to flow’r.
Oh Spring, indeed, thou teachest well
That man, though wise, knoweth not the spell
Which makes all things by beauty bound—
That Mystery which none hath found.
The Glass Aerie 