





POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
oo 
— 
oo 
THE LANGUAGH OF FLOWERS. 
Trace thee their language? Sweet, I know no 
tongue, 
No mystic art those gentle things declare; 
TI ne’er could trace the schoolman’s trick among 
Created things, so delicate and rare : 
Their language? Prythee ; why, they are them- 
selves 
But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and 
hue, 
The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves, 
When tenderness as yet within the world was 
new. 
And oh, do not their soft and starry eyes— 
Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies, 
Yet still from earth with freshening hope re- 
ceding— 
Say, do not these to every heart declare, 
With all the silent eloquence of truth, 
The language that they speak is Nature’s prayer, 
To give her back those spotless days of youth ? 
