92 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
degrees become familiar with my griefs : per¬ 
haps they will even come to my feet to seek 
protection from the persecution of men. Ye, 
too, will hover round me, industrious bees ; and 
if I pluck but a single sprig from the Heath' of 
your solitary haunts, ye will come to my very 
hands for the honey, which ye gather not for 
yourselves but for others. And you, noisy 
quails, will measure both for yourselves and for 
me the hours which fly away, without leaving 
behind me in these wilds either traces or regrets. 
Gentle doves, tender nightingales, your sighs 
and murmurs were made for fragrant bowers ; 
but I can no longer muse in their shade. The 
voice of the monarch of this solitude scares 
you away ; for me it has charms : with the first 
beams of the moon its melancholy tones will 
reach the ear. The owl will then issue from the 
hollow trunk of some time-worn oak. Perched 
on the boughs which hide his mossy retreat, 
his screech affrights the timid maiden as she 
counts the hours of her lover’s absence; it 
thrills the mother watching beside the couch on 
which fever has prostrated her only child; but 
it soothes the unhappy man who has consigned 
