LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up. 
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup. 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky ; 
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, 
Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than ever. 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver— 
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; 
Radiance and odour are not its dower; 
It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful! 
V • * * * 
Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
Like windless clouds o’er a tender sky. 
And when evening descended from heaven above, 
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love, 
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, 
And the day’s veil fell from the world of sleep, 
* * * * v 
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest, and yet the favourite, 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 
Shelley, 
63 
