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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Where leaves are dancing over each flower, 
Fanning it well in the noontide hour, 
And the breath of the wind is murmuring low, 
As branches are bending to and fro. 
Sweet are the memories that ye bring 
Of the pleasant leafy woods of spring; 
Of the wild bee, so gladly humming, 
Joyous that earth’s young flowers are coming; 
Of the nightingale and merry thrush, 
Cheerfully singing from every bush; 
And the cuckoo’s note, when the air is still, 
Heard far away on the distant hill. 
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Pure are the sights and sounds of the wild 
Ye can bring to the heart of Nature’s child; 
Plain and beautiful is the story 
That ye tell of your Maker’s glory ; N 
Useful the lesson that ye bear, 
That fragile is all, however fair; 
While ye teach that time is on his wing, 
As ye open the blossoms of every spring. 
THE RED ANEMONE. 
TENNYSON. 
Growths of jasmine turned' 
Their humid arms, festooning tree and tree, 
And at the root through lush green grasses burned 
The red anemone. 
