



LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
DEAD LEAVES. 
SADNESS—MELANCHOLY. 
Winter comes on. The trees, after being 
stripped of their fruit, have now lost their 
leaves. Thesun, as he recedes from us, throws 
dun or melancholy tints over the foliage. The 
poplar is covered with a pale gold colour, while 
the acacia rolls up its light folioles, which the 
sun’s rays will no more expand: the birch 
droops its long hair, already deprived of orna- 
ments; and the fir, which is destined to retain 
its green pyramid, waves it proudly in the air. 
The oak stands immoveable: he defies the 
utmost efforts of the wind, which cannot strip 
his stately head of its honours : and it is only to 
Spring that the monarch of the woods will yield 
his leaves reddened by Winter, 
All these trees might be supposed to be 
moved by different passions: one bows pro- 
foundly, as if to pay homage to its neighbour, 
whom the tempest cannot bend; another seems 
























ited 
Tas, reset 
mad peop 
