180 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Go to the silent Autumn woods ! 
There has gone forth a spirit stern; 
Its wing has waved in triumph here, 
The spring's green tender leaf is sere, 
And withering hangs the summer fern. 
Mary Howitt. 
In our favoured country, Spring is clothed in 
a green robe enamelled with flowers, which owes 
all its ornaments to Nature. Summer, crowned 
with blue-bottles and wild poppies, proud of her 
golden harvests, receives from the hand of man 
part of her decorations ; whilst Autumn appears 
laden with fruit brought to perfection by his industry. 
Here the juicy peach is tinged with the colours of 
the rose ; the fine flavoured apricot borrows the gold 
that glows in the bosom of the ranunculus ; the 
grape decks itself with the purple of the violet ; and 
the apple with the varied hues of the gaudy tulip. 
All these fruits are so like flowers, that one would 
suppose them to have been made only to delight 
the eye: but yet they come to increase the 
abundance of our stores, and Autumn, which pours 
them upon our tables, seems to proclaim that they 
are the last gifts which Nature means to lavish 
upon us. 
But a new Flora suddenly makes her appearance, 
