THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
What perchance our dreams may know. 
Let our serious beauty show. 
Central depth of purple, 
Leaves more bright than rose, 
Who shall tell what brightest thought 
Out of darkest grows ; 
Who through what funereal pain, 
Souls to love and peace attain ? 
Visions aye are on us, 
Unto eyes of power, 
Pluto’s always setting sun, 
And Proserpine’s bower; 
There, like bees, the pale souls come 
For our drink with drowsy hum. 
Taste, ye mortals, also, 
Milky-hearted we; 
Taste, but with a reverent care; 
Active—patient be. 
Too much gladness brings to gloom 
Those who on die gods presume. 
THROUGH THE FIELDS. 
WILLIAM SAWYER. 
Pleasant beneath this burning sky of June, 
To tread the field-paths by these hedges gay. 
With shining gorse and rosy-blossomed May, 
To linger here, where in full blaze of noon, 
