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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
THE MIMOSA. 
DARWIN. 
Weak, with nice sense, the chaste mimosa stands 
From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands. 
Oft, as light clouds pass o’er the Summer’s glade, 
Alarmed, she trembles at the moving shade, 
And feels alive through all her tender form 
The whispered murmurs of the gathering storm : 
Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night, 
And hails with freshened charms the rosy light. 
THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 
SHELLEY. 
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew; 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night 
And the spring arose on the garden fair, 
Like the spirit of love felt everywhere ! 
And each flower and herb on earth’s dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
Like a doe in the noontide with love’s sweet want, 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 
The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet; 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 
