FLOWERS 59 



Sweet-williams, compions, sops in wine, 



One by another neatly ; 

 Thus have I made this wreath of mine 



And finished it featly. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



FLOWERS 



(From " The Book of Tea ") 



IN the trembling grey of a spring dawn, when the 

 birds were whispering in mysterious cadence among 

 the trees, have you not felt that they were talking 

 to their mates about the flowers ? Surely with 

 mankind the appreciation of flowers must have been 

 coeval with the. poetry of love. Where better than 

 in a flower, sweet in its unconsciousness, fragrant 

 because of its silence, can we imagine the unfolding 

 of a virgin soul ? The primeval man in offering the 

 first garland to his maiden thereby transcended the 

 brute. He became human in thus rising above the 

 crude necessities of nature. He entered the realm 

 of art when he perceived the subtle use of the 

 useless. 



In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends. 

 We eat, drink, sing, dance, and flirt with them. 

 We wed and christen with flowers. We dare not 

 die without them. We have worshipped with the 

 lily, we have meditated with the lotus, we have 

 charged in battle array with the rose and the 

 chrysanthemum. We have even attempted to speak 

 in the language of flowers. How could we live 



