OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS 



have charming names, the softest in the language ; and each of 

 them proudly bears three or four, like so many tiny, simple 

 ex-votos, or so many medals bestowed by the gratitude of men. 

 You Gillyflowers, who sing among the crumbling walls and 

 brighten the sorrowing stones ; you Garden Primroses, Primu- 

 las or Cowslips, Hyacinths, Crocuses and Cinerarias, Crown 

 Imperials, Scented Violets, Lilies of the Valley, Forget-me- 

 nots, Daisies and Periwinkles, Poet's Narcissus, Pheasant's- 

 Eyes, Bear's-Ears, Alyssum, Lady's Cushions, Anemones : it is 

 through you that the months that come before the leaf-time — 

 February, March, April — translate into smiles which men 

 can understand the first tidings and the first mysterious kisses 

 of the sun! You are frail and chilly and yet as brazen as a 

 happy thought. You make young the grass; you are fresh 

 as the water that flows in the azure cups which the dawn 

 distributes over the greedy buds, ephemeral as the dreams of a 

 child, almost wild still and almost spontaneous, yet already 

 marked by the too-precocious brilliancy, the too-flaming nim- 

 bus, the too-pensive grace that overwhelm the flowers which 

 yield obedience to man. 



4 

 But here, innumerous, disordered, many-coloured, tu- 



