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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Like pearly dew-drops, white and round, 
The sliut-up huds shall first appear, 
And in them bo such fragrance found, 
As breeze before did never hear; 
Such as in Eden only dwelt, 
When angels hover’d round its bowers, 
And long-hair’d Eve at morning knelt 
In innocence amid the flowers : 
While the whole air was, every way, 
Fill’d with a perfume sweet as May. 
And oft shall groups of children come, 
Threading their way through shady places, 
From many a peaceful English home, 
The sunshine falling on their faces ; 
Starting with merry voice the thrush, 
As through green lanes they wander singin 
To gather the sweet Hawthorn-bush ; 
Which homeward in the evening bringing 
With smiling faces, they shall say, 
“ There’s nothing half so sweet as May.” 
And many a poet yet unborn 
Shall link its name with some sweet lay, 
And lovers oft at early morn 
Shall gather blossoms of the May ; 
With eyes bright as the silver dews 
Which on the rounded May-bud sleep, 
