So 
the language of flowers. 
THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
WORDSWORTH. 
A rock there is whose lonely front 
The passing traveller slights; 
Yet there the glowworms hang their lamps, 
Like stars, at various heights ; 
And one coy primrose to that rock 
The vernal breeze invites. 
What hideous warfare hath been waged, 
What kingdoms overthrown, 
Since first I spied that primrose tuft, 
And marked it for my own ! 
A lasting link in nature’s chain 
From highest heaven let down. 
The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 
Their fellowship renew; 
The stems are faithful to the root, 
That worketh out of view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres, 
In every fibre true. 
Close clings to earth the living rock, 
Though threatening still to fall; 
The earth is constant to her sphere, 
And God upholds them all : 
So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads, 
Her annual funeral. 
^ ^ 
