DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 136 
FLOWERS LOVE’S TRUEST LANGUAGE. 
PARK BENJAMIN 
Flowers are love’s truest language; they betray, 
Like the divining roils of Magi old, 
Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, 
But love, strong love, that never can decay. 
I send thee flowers, 0 dearest, and I deem 
Thatfrom their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, 
Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, 
When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may 
seem 
All eloquent of feelings unexpressed. 
0, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair, 
Let them repose on thy forehead fair, 
And on thy bosom’s yielding snow be pressed; 
Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal 
The love that maiden coyness would conceal. 
THE DESERTED. 
Lay a garland on my hearse, 
Of the dismal yew; 
Maidens, willow-branches bear, 
Say I died true. 
My love was false, but I was firm, 
From my hour of birth; 
Upon my buried body lie 
Lightly, gentle earth. 
Beaumont and Fletcher. 
9 
