







































138 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
Then will hang on every stalk, 
Each within its leafy bower ; 
And for that promise, spare the flower, 
WORDSWORTH. 

THE IVY GREEN. 
fidelity—Marriage, 
=aw4|ii, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 
| That creepeth o’er ruins old; 

ween, 
In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay d, 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mould’ring dust that years have made 
Is a merry meal for him. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
