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7 HE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Could I but think you don’t forget, 
Though all my hopes of life should perish, 
I’d pass them by without regret, 
So that that thought I still might cherish. 
Forget me not! ’tis all I ask, 
And though thy hand may be another’s, 
I’ll wear upon my face a mask 
Of smiles to hide the grief it covers. 
Let, then, these withered flowers recall 
Each broken link of Memory’s chain ; 
And from the Past’s dim haunted hall 
Those happy hours bring back again. 
Forget me not! mine only love— 
Ah ! would indeed that you were mine! 
Forget me not! my long-lost dove, 
In dreams my heart will beat next thine l 
