In The Race Of The Flowers That's Run Due, As The Hartstongue Pants At The Well And The Houndstongue Laps The Sundew. Here'S Venus'-Combe For Maidenhair: While King-Cups Drink Bella-Donna, Glad In Purple And Gold So Fair, Though The Deadly Nightshade'S Upon Her. Behold London Pride Robed & Crowned, Ushered In By The Golden Rod, While A Floral Crowd Press Around, Just To Win From Her Crest A Nod. The Foxgloves Are Already On. Not Only In Pairs But Dozens; They've Come Out To See All The Fun, With Sisters And Aunts And Cousins. The Stitchwork Looked Up With A Sigh At Batchelor'S Buttons Unsewn: Single Daisies Were Not In Her Eye, For The Grass Was Just Newly Mown. The Horse-Tail, 'Scaped From Wolfe'S Claw, Rides Off With A Ladies' Lages. The Friar'S-Cowl Hides A Doctor Of Law, And The Bishop'S-Weed Covers His Grace'S The Snapdragon Opened His Jaw, But, At Sight Of Scotch Thistle, Turned Pale: he'd Too Many Points Of The Law For A Dragon Without A Scale. Little Jenny-Creeper Lay Low, Till Happy Thoughts Made Her Gladder; How To Rise In The World She'd Know, So She Climbed Up Jacob'S Ladder Sweet William With Marygold Seek Heartsease In The Close Box-Border. Where, Starched In Their Ruff'S Stiff Fold, Dutch Dahlias Prim, Keep Order. Narcissus Bends Over The Brook, Intent Upon Daffa-Down-Dilly: While Eyebright Observes From Her Nook, And Wonders He Could Be So Silly. A Lance For A Lad 'Gainst King'S Spear. When The Bugle Sounds For The Play A Ladies Mantle Flaunting There Is The Banner That Leads The Fray. Knight'S Spur To The Ladies Bower To Seek For The Ladies Slipper. 'Twas Lost In The Wood In A Summer Shower When The Clown'S Wort Tried To Trip Her. Toad-Flax Is Spun For Butter-And-Eggs On A Ladies' Cushion Sits Thrift She Never Wastes, Or Steals, Or Begs, But She Can't Give Poor Ragwort A Lift. Queen Of The Meads Is Meadowsweet, In The Realm Of Grasses Wide: But Not In All Her Court You Meet The Turbaned Turk'S Head In His Pride. Fair Bethlehem' Star Shineth Bright, In A Lowly Place, As Of Old, And Through The Green Gloom Glows The Light Of St. John'S-Wort--A Nimbus Of Gold. But The Hours Of The Sun Swift Glide, And The Flowers With Them Are Speeding. Though Love-In-A-Mist May Hide. When Time'S In The Garden Weeding. There'S Traveller'S Joy To Entwine, At Our Journey'S End For Greeting, We Can Talk Over Sops-In-Wine, And Drink To Our Next Merry Meeting.