70 WILD FLOWEKS. 
The Breath of Flowers, 
There is a virtue in the breath of flowers, 
Borne on the light-winged dew-drops to the sun, 
That melts from out these stubborn hearts of ours 
The purest incense to the Holy One. 
A virtue, more medicinal for sadness, 
Than morning drams to turn the heart to gladness. 
The Language of Flowers. 
Teach thee their language? sweet, I know no 
tongue, 
No mystic art those gentle things declare, 
I ne’er could trace the schoolman’s trick among 
Created things, so delicate and rare: 
Their language? Prythee! why, they are themselves 
But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue, 
The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves, 
When tenderness as yet within the world was 
new. 
