THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,

To her who now lies waking,

To hear thy silver bell

The midnight silence breaking.

And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,

Beneath her lattice springing,

Ah, well she'll know how sweet

The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no — not words, for they

But half can tell love's feeling;

Sweet flowers alone can say

What passion fears revealing.

A once bright rose's withered leaf,

A towering lily broken,—

Oh these may paint a grief

No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,

The wreath thou speedest over

Yon moonlight dale, to tell

My lady how I love her.

And, what to her will sweeter be

Than gems the richest, rarest,—

From Truth's immortal tree

One fadeless leaf thou bearest.