Flowers are love’s truest language! they betray, 
Like the divining rods of magi old, 
Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, 
But love, strong love, that never can decay 1 
I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem 
That from their petals, thou wilt hear sweet words, 
Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, 
When breathed to thee alone, perchance may seem, 
All eloquent of feelings unexpressed. 
O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair! 
Let them repose upon thy forehead fair, 
And on thy bosom’s yielding snow be pressed! 
Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers revetS, 
The love that maiden coyness would conceal. 
Park Benjamin. 
