210 
1HE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
White as snow, the circling petals 
Cluster round each golden star, 
Rising, falling with the waters, 
Moving, yet at rest they are. 
Winds may blow, and skies may darken, 
Rain may pour, and waves may swell; 
Deep beneath the changeful eddies 
Lily roots are fastened well. 
THE CLOSING LILY. 
TENNYSON. 
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake; 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom, and be lost in me. 
A DIALOGUE FROM SOUL GARDENING. 
DORA GREENWELL. 
“ Thou bearest flowers within Thy hand, 
Thou wearest on Thy breast 
A flower; now tell me which of these 
Thy flowers Thou loveth best; 
Which wilt Thou gather to Thy heart 
Beloved above the rest ?” 
“ Should I not love my flowers, 
My flowers that bloom and pine, 
Unseen, unsought, unwatched for hours 
By any eyes but Mine ? 
