90 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Whose rim is ruffled by the gale, 
When red and white in turn are seen, 
Coming and going through the green 
Of the ever-waving grass. 
A silken scarf that lady wore,— 
’Twas picked up on a distant moor, 
Only a day or so before, 
And there the battle had been* fought— 
A faithful squire the token brought— 
The young knight he in vain had sought. 
“ I wove him this. On this he swore,” 
The Daisy said, “ I’ll think no more! 
Dim doubts before my vision pass.” 
“ And yet when I this token see, 
And think what nights these wakeful eyes 
Bent o’er its dim embroidery, 
Painful emotions will arise, 
Such as I felt not till we parted,— 
Such as but spring from doubts and fears, 
And make the bearer broken-hearted, 
Through nights of sighs and days of tears. 
“ Perhaps for me he cares not now, 
Nor heeds either my tears or sighing, 
Perchance he has forgot my vow! 
Forgive me, Heaven! he may be dying, 
