64 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
of Love, which never dies, restore her mourned 
Adonis, but not until the roses bloomed again, 
which the autumn winds were then withering upon 
earth. He remembered not, at the moment, that 
she whom he sought to console had the sole do¬ 
minion over these regal flowers, that they were 
dedicated to her and to Love. She had but to wish 
it and they began to bloom again,—and as she sat 
in silence, she felt the warm blood flowing slowly 
through the veins of Adonis, — as the day dawned, 
his hand returned her own eager pressure, and 
when his lips moved they gave back murmur for 
murmur, and kiss for kiss. 
When the next morning’s sun arose and gilded 
these silent glades, the Eoses, on which the blood 
of the Goddess of Beauty had fallen, and which 
were ever before white, were changed into a delicate 
crimson; and wherever a tear had dropped, there 
had sprung up a flower which the earth had never 
before born, and that was the Lily of the Valley; 
and wherever a ruddy drop had fallen from the 
death-wound of Adonis, there rose up the red flower 
which still beareth his name. Even the white 
apple-blossoms, which he clutched in his agony, 
ever after wore the ruddy stain which they caught 
from his folded fingers; and the drowsy Poppy 
grew up everywhere around the spot, as if to denote 
that the only consolation which can be found for 
