112 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
had gathered in the gardens of heaven, their voices 
blended together as they chanted the lays brought 
from another world 
SONG OF THE FLO WEE-SPIRITS. 
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine ? 
I am weaving a wreath of the wild woodbine ; 
I have streak’d it without like the sunset hue, 
And silver’d it white with the morning dew : 
And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows 
From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose, 
That’s sweeter than mine—that’s sweeter than 
mine — 
I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine. 
White watcher of blossoms, what weavest thou ? 
I am stringing the Hawthorn-buds on a green bough; 
I have dyed them with pearl, and stolen the flush 
Of the dawn from the hills, in the morning’s faint 
blush; 
And the odours they breathe of, to me were first 
given 
By an angel I knew in the gardens of heaven : 
And Love, should he ever remember the tale, 
Shall tell how I perfumed the May of the vale. 
