270 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Oh, rushes green, 
With blossoms wan or brown !—and ye 
Sweet flags, from whose scent-roots to me 
Come thoughts of the Has Been, 
Ye are the fitting plants at eve to shed 
A vague mysterious perfume o’er the silent dead ! 
“ Not so !—not so !” 
A voice replies : “ For joy alone 
These reeds and rushes here are strewn !” 
But I again cry : “ Lo ! 
Joy’s emblems here I fitly use, to prove 
That life and death alike spring from God’s holy love. 
