Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought!

For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

Tell her that’s young.
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair,

Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise
And teach the maid
That goodness Time’s rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.

The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent,
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness.

And the naiad-like lily of the vale.
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green;

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft and intense,
It was felt like an odour within the sense!

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast,
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,
Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than ever,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver—

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower;
Radiance and odour are not its dower;
It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full,
It desires what it has not, the beautiful!
* * * * * *
Each and all like ministering angels were
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear.
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by
Like windless clouds o’er a tender sky.

And when evening descended from heaven above,
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love,
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep,
And the day’s veil fell from the world of sleep,
* * * * * *
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest;
A sweet child weary of its delight,
The feeblest, and yet the favourite,
Cradled within the embrace of night.

The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year,
And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear,
For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer;
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view,
For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonnie mou;
The hyacinth’s for constancy w’ its unchanging blue,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair.
And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there;
The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day,
But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away;
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond-drops o’ dew shall be her e’en sae clear:
The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll tie the posie round w’ the silken band o’ luve,
And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above,
That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remuve.
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nannie’s awa.

Thou lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa’,
Give over for pity—my Nannie ‘s awa.

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey,
And sooth me wi’ tidings o’ Nature’s decay;
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa,

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet!
Wi’ spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Could blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield.
High shell’ring woods and wa’s maun shield,
But thou beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibbte-Jleld,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweety flow’ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betray’d.
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard.
And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n,
To mis’ry’s brink.
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruin’d, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives, elate.
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom!

Now lav’rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow’r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi’ many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi’ care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn’s budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o’ bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu’ lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e’en;
And I’m the sov’reign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign Lands,
And never ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae,
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That thro thy soul shall gae:
The weeping blood in woman’s breast
Was never known to thee;
Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of woe
Frae woman’s pitying e’e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign.
That ne’er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:
And where thou meet’st thy mother’s friend,
Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o’er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o’ death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flow’rs that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep,
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet
Or brought a kiss
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read:
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth.
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass.
So deep in hive am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt w’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while;
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou art gone.
Love itself shall slumber on.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer’s rain,
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

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

At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shed,
I’ th’ rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year;
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear,
For him that’s dead!

Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the naked world declare
The worth we’ve lost!

Ere a leaf is on the bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we’ve little warmth, or none.

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly unassuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane—there’s not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But ’tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien,
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart’s command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing;
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

What, were you born to be,
An hour or half’s delight,
And so to bid good-night?
‘Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read, how soon things have
Their end, though ne’er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

Within the garden’s peaceful scene
Appear’d two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden’d into rage,
And, swelling with disdain,
Appeal’d to many a poet’s page
To prove her right to reign.

The Lily’s height bespoke command,
A fair imperial flower;
She seem’d designed for Flora’s hand,
The sceptre of her power.

This civil bick’ring and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, ere yet too late,
The pride of the parterre.

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,
And yours the statelier mien;
And, till a third surpasses you,
Let each be deemed a queen.

Thus, soothed and reconciled, each seeks
The fairest British fair:
The seat of empire is her cheeks,
They reign united there.

Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

And in the warm hedge grew lush Eglantine,
Green Cow-bind and the moonlight-colour’d May
And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;
And Wild Roses, and Ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray,
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge.
And floating Water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Amongst these Roses in a row,
Next place I Pinks in plenty,
These double Pansies then for show;
And will not this be dainty

The pretty Pansy then I’ll tie,
Like stones some chain inchasing;
And next to them, their near ally,
The purple Violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower,
Whose kind hight the Carnation,
For sweetnest of most sovereign power,
Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colours of one kind,
First from one root derived,
Them in their several suits I’ll bind:
My garland so contrived.

A course of Cowslips then I’ll stick,
And here and there (though sparely)
The pleasant Primrose down I’ll prick.
Like pearls that will show rarely;

Then with these Marigolds I’ll make
My garland somewhat swelling,
These Honeysuckles then I’ll take,
Whose sweets shall help their smelling.

The Lily and the Fleur-de-lis.
For colour much contending;
For that I them do only prize,
They are but poor in scenting.

The Daffodil most dainty is,
To match with these in meetness;
The Columbine compared to this,
All much alike for sweetness.

These in their natures only are
Fit to emboss the border.
Therefore I’ll take especial care
To place them in their order:

Sweet-williams, Campions, Sops-in-wine,
One by another neatly;
Thus have I made this wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds fill’d with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh.
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

At morn the nymph vouchaf’d to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look’d more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

Undrest, at ev’ning, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She chang’d her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse’s tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well;
My love! my life! said I, explain
This change of humour; pray thee tell:
That falling tear.—What does it mean

She sigh’d, she smil’d; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See! friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at ev’ning, pale, and gone!

At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;
The am’rous youth around her bow’d:
At night her fatal knell was rung!
I saw and kiss’d her in her shroud;

Such as she is, who dy’d to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Cloe’s sorrow.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times will succeed the former.

—Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

“Oh, there beyond expression blest,
“I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
“Seal’d on her silk-waft faulds to rest,
“Till fley’d awa by Phœbus’ light.”

O were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.[*]