
INTRODUCTION. 



ARE not flowers thé earliest gift of love? 
Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak 








For ahsent or for trembling hearts, and bear 
Kisses and sighs on their perfuméd lips, 
And worlds of thoughts and fancies in their tears, 
Touched by the rainbow’s dyes? Have ye ne’er 
prized 
Some token flower—an early rose — a bunch 
Of young Spring’s first and sweetest violets, 
culled 
And given into yours by hands so dear, 
That all flowers seemed grown holier from that 
time ? 
Have you ne’er hoarded such a simple gift, 
Ay, through long years, e’en when each shrunken 
leaf 
Bore not a semblance to the thing it was, 

And the soft fragrance, that had once been there, 


