THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
WOODBINE. 
SHAKSPEARE. 
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows; 
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, 
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine : 
There sleeps Titania, some time of the night, 
Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight: 
And there the snake throws her enamelled skin, 
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. 
THE QUESTION. 
SHELLEY. 
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way, 
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, 
And gentle odours led my steps astray, 
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream 
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 
Faint oxlips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 
Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears. 
