X.

To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature's sentinels.

In cave if I presumed to hide, The walls began to tell; Creation seemed a mighty crack To make me visible.

A ROSE.

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze A caper in the trees, -- And I'm a rose!