Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil.

Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil.

Flowers are restful to look at. They have neither emotions nor conflicts.

Flowers are restful to look at. They have neither emotions nor conflicts.

Earth laughs in flowers.

Earth laughs in flowers.

The happy bells shall ring Marguerite;
The summer birds shall sing Marguerite;
You smile but you shall read more

The happy bells shall ring Marguerite;
The summer birds shall sing Marguerite;
You smile but you shall wear
Orange blossoms in your hair, Marguerite.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.
She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed,--
read more

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.
She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed,--
And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden-close;
Her tears, to the wind-flower,--his blood, to the rose.

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
read more

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.

Sweet letters of the angel tongue,
I've loved ye long and well,
And never have failed in read more

Sweet letters of the angel tongue,
I've loved ye long and well,
And never have failed in your fragrance sweet
To find some secret spell,--
A charm that has bound me with witching power,
For mine is the old belief,
That midst your sweets and midst your bloom,
There's a soul in every leaf!

Who that has loved knows not the tender tale
Which flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?
read more

Who that has loved knows not the tender tale
Which flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?
- Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, first Baron Lytton,

The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer read more

The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the first from the clear cold heaven, as falls the
plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland glade and
glen.