POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
74 
In thee I found a new delight—- 
Alone, my heart was ever sighing 
And pining for another heart; 
Like flowers that bow beneath the night, 
The very fragrance in them dying, 
So did I droop from thee apart; 
Till on me broke thy beauteous splendor— 
Thine eyes that looked—oh, heaven ! how tender: 
I cannot tell thee what thou art. 
Thou ’rt like the Water-lily pure, 
That grows where rippling waters rumble, 
Constant as are the flowers of blue, 
That every stormy change endure ; 
And, like the Broom, though ever Humble, 
They die, but never change their hue : 
The Rosemary, that in December 
Still says, “ I pray you, ldve, remember 
Through storms and snow remaining true. 
