38 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And are ye here ? and are ye here ? 
Drinking the dew like wine, 
’Midst living gales and waters clear, 
And heaven’s unstinted shine. 
I care not that your little life 
Will quickly have run through, 
And the sward with summer children rife 
Keep not a trace of you. 
For again, again, on dewy plain, 
I trust to see you rise, 
When spring renews the wildwood strain, 
And bluer gleam the skies. 
Again, again, when many springs 
Upon my grave shall shine, 
Here shall you speak of vanished things 
To living hearts of mine. 
THE COWSLIP. 
MISS LANDON. 
The cowslip, that bending 
With its golden bells, 
Of each glad hour’s ending 
With a sweet chime tells. 
