THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

The language of FlowersTHE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

The language of Flowers

It is said that the flowers, as well as the birds,Have a language peculiar, with phrases and words;And that oft, in the hush of a warm summer day,You may hear, if you listen, whatever they say.I have doubted till lately, and thought it was allThe whim of some dreamer, whom poet they call;But since the sweet seventh of June, fifty-one,My doubts have all vanished, like mists in the sun.As I walked in the garden I saw a sweet rose,Such as seldom on this side of Paradise grows,With a deep, deepening blush overspreading its cheek,Leaning down to a lily, as if it would speak.Behind a tall orange in bloom, as it spreadIts rich fragrant shadow all over the bed,Unperceived by the parties, I paused in my walkAnd, in truth, overheard an intelligent talk.First, a low, distant murmur arrested my ear,Like the memory of tones which in dreaming we hear;Then, clear and distinct, though subtile as thought,Their simple, articulate language I caught.“Thou fairest of gems,” said the rose, bending down,“Too sweet for the earth and too chaste for a crown,I would thou wert taller, that here, in my place,The world might appreciate thy sweetness and grace.”“Nay, nay, lovely rose,” the fair lily replied,“It is safer in humble retirement to hide;Earth’s praises I court not; my graces were givenTo exhale, in their careless redundance, to heaven.”As the rest of their talk was of love, and as IWas acting the part of an eaves-dropping spy,I will not report it; but this I have told,As conveying a lesson for young and for old.

It is said that the flowers, as well as the birds,Have a language peculiar, with phrases and words;And that oft, in the hush of a warm summer day,You may hear, if you listen, whatever they say.

It is said that the flowers, as well as the birds,

Have a language peculiar, with phrases and words;

And that oft, in the hush of a warm summer day,

You may hear, if you listen, whatever they say.

I have doubted till lately, and thought it was allThe whim of some dreamer, whom poet they call;But since the sweet seventh of June, fifty-one,My doubts have all vanished, like mists in the sun.

I have doubted till lately, and thought it was all

The whim of some dreamer, whom poet they call;

But since the sweet seventh of June, fifty-one,

My doubts have all vanished, like mists in the sun.

As I walked in the garden I saw a sweet rose,Such as seldom on this side of Paradise grows,With a deep, deepening blush overspreading its cheek,Leaning down to a lily, as if it would speak.

As I walked in the garden I saw a sweet rose,

Such as seldom on this side of Paradise grows,

With a deep, deepening blush overspreading its cheek,

Leaning down to a lily, as if it would speak.

Behind a tall orange in bloom, as it spreadIts rich fragrant shadow all over the bed,Unperceived by the parties, I paused in my walkAnd, in truth, overheard an intelligent talk.

Behind a tall orange in bloom, as it spread

Its rich fragrant shadow all over the bed,

Unperceived by the parties, I paused in my walk

And, in truth, overheard an intelligent talk.

First, a low, distant murmur arrested my ear,Like the memory of tones which in dreaming we hear;Then, clear and distinct, though subtile as thought,Their simple, articulate language I caught.

First, a low, distant murmur arrested my ear,

Like the memory of tones which in dreaming we hear;

Then, clear and distinct, though subtile as thought,

Their simple, articulate language I caught.

“Thou fairest of gems,” said the rose, bending down,“Too sweet for the earth and too chaste for a crown,I would thou wert taller, that here, in my place,The world might appreciate thy sweetness and grace.”

“Thou fairest of gems,” said the rose, bending down,

“Too sweet for the earth and too chaste for a crown,

I would thou wert taller, that here, in my place,

The world might appreciate thy sweetness and grace.”

“Nay, nay, lovely rose,” the fair lily replied,“It is safer in humble retirement to hide;Earth’s praises I court not; my graces were givenTo exhale, in their careless redundance, to heaven.”

“Nay, nay, lovely rose,” the fair lily replied,

“It is safer in humble retirement to hide;

Earth’s praises I court not; my graces were given

To exhale, in their careless redundance, to heaven.”

As the rest of their talk was of love, and as IWas acting the part of an eaves-dropping spy,I will not report it; but this I have told,As conveying a lesson for young and for old.

As the rest of their talk was of love, and as I

Was acting the part of an eaves-dropping spy,

I will not report it; but this I have told,

As conveying a lesson for young and for old.

Flowers

Blow, blow, ye winds, from the wide blue sea!Oh, cool the heat of this fevered brow,And still this heart with such melodyAs your fluttering wings are wafting now!Bear on, bear on, from that distant shore,The loving tones of a household bandWhose cherished, forms I see no more,Ye voices dim from my fatherland!Such sad, sweet thoughts to me ye bringOf my own far home with its ivied walls,Of the vine-wreathed porch, where the zephyr singsThrough the rustling leaves, and the sunbeam falls—Of the threshold stone, and the open door,Of the kindred forms that gathered there,At the stilly eve full hearts to pour,In a gush of song on the listening air—Of the noisy flow of the little brook,Whose mossy banks our footsteps haunted;Of winds which half their sweetness tookFrom fragrant bowers our hands had planted.Fleta Forrester.

Blow, blow, ye winds, from the wide blue sea!Oh, cool the heat of this fevered brow,And still this heart with such melodyAs your fluttering wings are wafting now!

Blow, blow, ye winds, from the wide blue sea!

Oh, cool the heat of this fevered brow,

And still this heart with such melody

As your fluttering wings are wafting now!

Bear on, bear on, from that distant shore,The loving tones of a household bandWhose cherished, forms I see no more,Ye voices dim from my fatherland!

Bear on, bear on, from that distant shore,

The loving tones of a household band

Whose cherished, forms I see no more,

Ye voices dim from my fatherland!

Such sad, sweet thoughts to me ye bringOf my own far home with its ivied walls,Of the vine-wreathed porch, where the zephyr singsThrough the rustling leaves, and the sunbeam falls—

Such sad, sweet thoughts to me ye bring

Of my own far home with its ivied walls,

Of the vine-wreathed porch, where the zephyr sings

Through the rustling leaves, and the sunbeam falls—

Of the threshold stone, and the open door,Of the kindred forms that gathered there,At the stilly eve full hearts to pour,In a gush of song on the listening air—

Of the threshold stone, and the open door,

Of the kindred forms that gathered there,

At the stilly eve full hearts to pour,

In a gush of song on the listening air—

Of the noisy flow of the little brook,Whose mossy banks our footsteps haunted;Of winds which half their sweetness tookFrom fragrant bowers our hands had planted.Fleta Forrester.

Of the noisy flow of the little brook,

Whose mossy banks our footsteps haunted;

Of winds which half their sweetness took

From fragrant bowers our hands had planted.

Fleta Forrester.

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