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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Oh, rushes green, 
With blossoms wan or brown ! and ye 
Sweet flags, from whose scent-roots to me 
Come thoughts of the Has Been, 
Ye are the fitting plants at eve to shed 
A vague mysterious perfume o’er the silent dead . 
“ Not so !—not so !” 
A voice replies: “ For joy alone 
These reeds and rushes here are strewn . 
But I again cry : “ Lo ! 
Toy’s emblems here I fitly use, to prove 
That life and death alike spring from God s holy love. 
V 
