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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, 
Go to the silent Autumn woods! 
There has gone forth a spirit stern ; 
Its w'ing has waved in triumph here, 
The spring’s green tender leaf is sere, 
And withering hangs the summer fern. 
Mary Howitt. 
In our favoured country, Spring is clothed in 
a green robe enamelled with flowers, which 
owes all its ornaments to Nature. Summer, 
crowned with blue-bottles and wild poppies, 
proud of her golden harvests, receives from the 
hand of man part of her decorations ; whilst 
Autumn appears laden with fruit brought to per¬ 
fection by his industry. Here the juicy peach is 
tinged with the colours of the rose; the fine-fla¬ 
voured apricot borrows the gold that glows in the 
bosom of the ranunculus ; the grape decks itself 
with the purple of the violet; and the apple with 
the varied hues of the gaudy tulip. All these 
fruits are so like flowers, that one would suppose 
them to have been made only to delight the eye : 
but yet they come to increase the abundance 
of our stores, and Autumn, which pours them 
upon our tables, seems to proclaim that they are 
the last gifts which Nature means to lavish upon 
us. 
