Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of His love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Writ all over this great world of ours—
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

Longfellow.

Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity; children love them; tender, contented, ordinary people love them. They are the cottager's treasure; and in the crowded town mark, as with a little fragment of rainbow, the windows of the workers in whose heart rests the covenant of peace.

Ruskin.