You call it, u Love-lies-bleeding,”—so you may, 
Though the red flower, not prostrate, only droops. 
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew 
Of his death wound, when he from innocent air 
The gentlest breath of resignation drew, 
While Venus in a passion of despair 
Bent weeping over him, her golden hair 
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. 
Wordsworth. 
CELAND INE. 
There s a flower that shall be mine, 
’Tis the little Celandine. 
Prophet of delight and mirth. 
Ill-requited upon earth. 
Wordsworth. 
