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THE LANGUAGE OF FLO HfEES. 
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A circle of azaleas, white as snow, 
Edged by a delicate fringe of maidenhair, 
And then a row of clustered violets, 
And in the midst camellias pale and cold ; 
Fit flower for those who have no heart to love. 
That is your bouquet, and a costly one. 
But to my mind, for lady’s hand too large. 
Too artificial, and too stiffly planned. 
Fancy it painted ! just a mass of white 
Not softened by the one dark heavy line. 
Now look at mine, fresh gathered, leaf by leaf 
From a green hedgerow. First a slender fern, 
A common fern, but green as emerald ; 
Spreading its delicate fronds out like a fan. 
And then another like a bishop's crook. 
Tinged with bright gold and russet, now a group 
Of lovely grasses, some like fairy plumes. 
Some silvery tufts, and mosses soft and smooth. 
And some so light as if a spider’s threads 
Had caught each shining seed upon their tips. 
And hung them to the slender bending stem. 
Here is a spray of dark ground ivy, bright 
As polished jet, beside,the sober grey 
Of nun-like folded buds with silver touched. 
And then for colour, here’s a glowin? leaf. 
Shaded from palest brown to deepest red. 
And here the rose tips of a sprig of thorn. 
And here and there, amid these many hues. 
Nestles a primrose in its own green leaf. 
While some white violets peep out from the ferns. 
And blue ones give a perfume to the grass. 
I would not change this handful of the spring 
For twenty clumps of costly hothouse flowers. 
