232 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
DEAD LEAVES. 
SADNESS MELANCHOLY. 
Winter comes on. The trees, after being strip- 
ped of their fruit, have now lost their leaves. The 
sun, as he recedes from us, throws dun or melan- 
choly tints over the foliage. The poplar is covered 
with a pale gold colour, while the acacia rolls up its 
light folioles, which the sun's rays will no more ex- 
pand : the birch droops its long hair, already de- 
prived of ornaments ; and the fir, which is destined 
to retain its green pyramid, waves it proudly in the 
air. The Oak stands immoveable : he defies the 
utmost efforts of the wind, which cannot strip his 
stately head of its honours ; and it is only to Spring 
that the monarch of the woods will yield his leaves 
reddened by Winter. 
All these trees might be supposed to be moved by 
different passions ; one bows profoundly as if to pay 
homage to its neighbor, whom the tempest cannot 
bend ; another seems to be striving to embrace its 
