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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
WILD FLOWERS. 
ANON. 
Despise thou not the wild flower—small it seern 
And of neglected growth, and its light bells 
Hang carelessly on every passing gale; 
Yet it is finely wrought, and colours there 
Might shame the Tyrian purple, and it bears 
Marks of a care eternal and divine ; 
Duly the dews descend to give it food, 
The sun revives its drooping, and the showers 
Add to its beauty, and the airs of Heaven 
Are round it for delight. 
FLOWERS. 
BARRY CORNWALL. 
Dear friend, love flowers well! 
Flowers are the sign 
Of Earth’s all gentle love—her grace, her youth, 
Her endless, matchless, tender gratitude. 
When the sun smiles on thee—why, thou art glad 
But when on Earth he smileth, She bursts forth 
In beauty like a bride, and gives him back, 
In sweet repayment for his warm bright love, 
A world of flowers. You may see them born 
On any day in April, moist or dry, 
As bright as are the Heavens that look on them : 
Some sown like stars upon the greensward, some 
As yellow as the sunrise, others red 
As day is when he sets ; reflecting thus 
In pretty moods the bounty of the sky. 
