File:Floral poetry and the language of flowers (1877) (14759868156).jpg

Identifier: cu31924068941578 (find matches)
Title: Floral poetry and the language of flowers
Year: 1877 (1870s)
Authors: S., J. H
Subjects: Flowers in literature English poetry Flower language
Publisher: London, Marcus Ward & Co.
Contributing Library: Cornell University Library
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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ILDREN of the suns first glancing,Flowers that deck the bounteous earthJoy and mirth are round ye dancing, Nature smiled upon your birth;Light hath veined your petals tender.And with hues of matchless splendour Flora paints each dewy bell;But lament, ye sweet spring blossoms,Soul hath never thrilled your bosoms, All in cheerless night ye dwell. Nightingale and lark are singing Many a lay of love to you ;In your chaliced blossoms swinging. Tiny sylphs their sylphids woo ;Deep within the painted bowerOf a soft and perfumed flower, Venus once did fall asleep ;But no pulse of passion dartedThrough your breast, by her imparted— Children of the morning, weep. When my mothers harsh rejection Bids me cease my love to speak—Pledges of a true affection. When your gentle aid I seek—Then by every voiceless tokenHope, and faith unchanged, are spoken. And by you my bosom grieves ;Love himself among you stealeth.And his awful form concealeth. Shut within your folding leaves. Frotii Schiller, ^
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^ ^ Floral Poetry. 33 THE FLOWER-DIAL. /TXWAS a lovely thought to mark the hours, A As they floated in light away,By the opening and the folding flowers. That laugh to the Summers day. Thus had each moment its own rich hue, And its graceful cup and bell,In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, Like a pearl in an ocean shell. To such sweet signs might the time have flowed In a golden current on.Ere from the garden, mans first abode, The glorious guests were gone. So might the days have been brightly told— Those days of song and dreams—When shepherds gathered their flocks of old, By the blue Arcadian streams. So in those isles of delight, that rest Far off in a breezeless main.Which many a bark, with a weary quest. Has sought, but still in vain. Yet is not life, in its real flight, Marked thus—even thus—on earth,By the closing of one hopes delight. And anothers gentle birth ? Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, Shutting in turn, may leaveA lingerer still for the sunse

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