The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
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The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.

And lilies are still lilies, pulled
By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.

And lilies are still lilies, pulled
By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.

Flowers are Love's truest language; they betray,
Like the divining rods of Magi old,
Where precious wealth read more

Flowers are Love's truest language; they betray,
Like the divining rods of Magi old,
Where precious wealth lies buried, not of gold,
But love--strong love, that never can decay!

Big doesn't necessarily mean better. Sunflowers aren't better than violets.

Big doesn't necessarily mean better. Sunflowers aren't better than violets.

I know not which I love the most,
Nor which the comeliest shows,
The timid, bashful violet
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I know not which I love the most,
Nor which the comeliest shows,
The timid, bashful violet
Or the royal-hearted rose:
The pansy in purple dress,
The pink with cheek of red,
Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs,
Like a bashful maid her head.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.

Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,
And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears,
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Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,
And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears,
Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,
Spring glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
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Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers!
Ye roses on your thorny tree
The first o' flow'rs.

A root is a flower that disdains fame.

A root is a flower that disdains fame.