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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
THE SNOWDROP. 
MRS. HOWITT. 
The snowdrop ! ’Tis an English flower, 
And grows beneath our garden trees; 
For every heart it has a dower, 
And old and dear remembrances ! 
All look upon it, and straightway 
Recall their youth like yesterday, 
Their sunny years when forth they went. 
Wandering in measureless content; 
Their little plot of garden ground, 
The mossy orchard's quiet bound; 
Their father’s house so free from care, 
And the familiar faces there; 
The household voices kind and sweet, 
That knew no feigning—hushed and gone ! 
The mother that was sure to greet 
Their coming with a welcome tone; 
The brothers that were children then, 
Now anxious, toiling, thoughtful men; 
And the kind sister whose glad mirth 
Was like a sunshine on the earth— 
These come back to the soul supine, 
Flower of the spring, at look of thine: 
And thou among the dimmed and gone, 
Art an unaltered thing alone ! 
Unchanged—unchanged—the very flower 
That grew in Eden droopingly— 
And now beside the peasant’s door 
Awakes his little children’s glee, 
Even as it filled his heart with joy 
Beside his mother’s door, a boy !— 
