The language of flowers

In Eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares;

Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,

On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The Rose is a sign of joy and love --

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn;

And the mildness that suits the gentle dove,

From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.

Innocence shines in the Lily's bell,

Pure as the heart in its native heaven;

Fame's bright star and glory's swell,

In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given.

The silent, soft, and humble heart,

In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes;

And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes.

The Cypress that daily shades the grave,

Is sorrow that moans her bitter lot;

And faith that a thousand ills can brave,

Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not.

Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers,

And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers.