THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE 33 



and the green warbler adds his little 

 prayer : " Oh, hear me ! Hear me, St. 

 Theresa! " This is their paean of joy, 

 their perfect song, before the nesting 

 cares ruffle their bright feathers, and 

 scorching July suns weary and silence 

 them. 



With bird notes mingle the flower 

 voices, in the language of quaint days, 

 when flowers served as speech between 

 shy lovers, and each young maiden 

 working in her garden lived and 

 dreamed in it. The flowering almond 

 spoke of hope, the bluebell nodded 

 constancy ; the vigorous arum, ardour; 

 the white poppy, closing with the early 

 shadows, sleep; the pansy, thoughts; 

 the larkspur, fickleness. But roses, 

 whether they are red or white, pink- 

 hearted or yellow, double or single, all 

 sing of love, the changeful melody of 

 many keys. 



D 



