THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 213 
IpttriiiJ mtir ifafolimss. 
BY WILLIAM P. PALMER. 
It was not beauty’s outward mien. 
That won my heart to thee ; 
For I a fairer form have seen. 
Eyes of more witchery. 
And I have seen a darker tress 
O’er shade a whiter brow; 
A cheek of richer tintedness, 
A lip of rubier glow. 
Yet these, man’s wild and wayward heart 
To love can never bind, 
Unless a kindred counterpart 
Is mirror’d by the mind. 
It was thy spirit’s gentle air. 
So indescribable — 
That formed my frail heart’s guileless snare. 
Its syren and its spell. 
Each free and joyous word, that flowed 
In music from thy tongue. 
Like gush of marble fountain, showed 
The pure source whence it sprung. 
I never saw a cloud come o’er 
Thy brow of virgin snow, 
Except when pity bade thee pour 
The tear for others’ woe. 
