i8o THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And this deep violet, almost as blue 
As Pallas’ eye, or thine Lycinnia, 
I’ll give to thee ; for like thyself it wears 
Its sweetness, ne’er obtruding. For this lily, 
Where can it hang but at Cyane’s breast ? 
And yet 'twill wither on so white a bed, 
If flowers have sense, for envy :—It shall lie 
Amongst thy raven tresses, Cytheris, 
Like one star on the bosom of the night. 
The cowslip, and the yellow primrose, they 
Are gone, my sad Leontia, to their graves, 
And April hath wept o’er them, and the voice 
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths, 
The dirge of those young children of the year. 
But here is heart’s-ease for your woes. And now, 
The honeysuckle flower I give to thee, 
And love it for my sake, my own Cyane : 
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou 
Hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow ; 
It flourishes with its guardian’s growth, as thou dost 
And if the woodman’s axe should drop the tree, 
The woodbine too must perish. 
WREATHS. 
Weave thee a wreath of woodbine, child, 
’Twill suit thy infant brow ; 
It runs up free in the woodlands wild, 
As tender and as frail as thou. 
He bound his brow with a woodbine wreath, 
And smiled his playful eye, 
And he lightly skipped o’er the blossomed heath 
In his young heart’s ecstacy. 
