THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS 
l ’)2 
By no change of its large calm front of snow. 
And underneath the mount a flower I know, 
He cannot have perceived, that changes ever 
At his approach ; and, in the lost endeavour 
To live his life, has parted, one by one, 
With all a flower’s true graces, for the grace 
Of being but a foolish mimic sun, 
With ray-like florets round a disc-like face. 
Men nobly call by many a name the mount, 
As over many a land of theirs its large 
Calm front of snow, like a triumphal targe, 
Is reared ; and still with old names fresh ones vie, 
Each to its proper praise and own account. 
Men call the flower the sunflower, sportively.” 
THE SUNFLOWER. 
THOMSON. 
The lofty follower of the sun, 
Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, 
Drooping all night, and, when he warm returns, 
Points her enamoured bosom to his ray. 
TO THE SUNFLOWER, 
Pride of the garden, the beauteous, the regal. 
The crowned with a diadem burning in gold; 
Sultan of flowers, as the strong-pinioned eagle. 
And lord of the forest their wide empire hold. 
Let the Rose boast her fragrance, the soft gales perfuming. 
The tulip unfold all her fair hues to me : 
Yet though sweet be their perfume, their rainbow dyes 
blooming, 
I turn, noble Sunflower, with more love to thee. 
