THE LANGUAGE OP FLOWERS. 
49 
There dwells no sorrow where we are abiding ; 
Care is a stranger, and troubles us not ; 
And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily 
riding, 
We woo, and they tenderly glide o’er the 
spot. 
They pause, and we glow in their rugged 
embraces, 
They drink our warm breath, rich with odour 
and song. 
Then hurry away to their desolate places, 
And look for us hourly, and think of us 
long. 
Who of the dull earth that is moving around 
us 
Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose, 
At the opening of Spring our destiny found us 
Close prisoned, until the first bud should 
unclose ; 
Then, as the dawning of light breaks upon us, 
Our ringlets of silk we unfold to the air, 
And leap off in joy to the music that won us, 
And made us the tenants of climates so fair. 
156 d 
