I have loved flowers that fade,
Within whose magic tents
Rich hues have marriage made
With sweet unmemoried scents.
Brazen helm of daffodillies,
With a glitter toward the light.
Purple violets for the mouth,
Breathing perfumes west and south;
And a sword of flashing lilies,
Holden ready for the fight.
E. B. Browning—Hector in the Garden.
Ah, ah, Qytherea! Adonis is dead.
She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed,—
And both turned into flowers for the earth's
Her tears, to the wind-flower,—his blood, to the rose.
E. B. Browning—Lament for Adonis. St. 6.
The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks,
Held out in the smoke, like stars by day.
E. B. Browning—The Soul's Travelling.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!—take them as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.
E. B. Browning—Trans, from the Portuguese. XLIV.
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 frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland glade and glen.
Bryant—Death of the Flowers.
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.
Bryant—Trans, of N. Miller's Paradise of Tears.
Who that has loved knows not the tender tale
Which flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell?
Bulwer-Lytton—Com Flowers. The First Violets. Bk. I. St. 1.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>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.
Burns—Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milkwhite is the slae.
Burns—Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots.
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.
Burns—My Nannie's Awa.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
John Byrom—A Pastoral. St. 8.
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true:
Yet wildings of nature, I dote upon you,
For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden 'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.
Campbell—Field Flowers.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>The berries of the brier rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.
Alice Cary—Faded Leaves.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>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 her purple dress,
The pink with cheek of red,
Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs,
Like a bashful maid her head.
Phebe Cary—Spring Flowers.
They know the time to go!
The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour
In field and woodland, and each punctual
flower
Bows at the signal an obedient head
And hastes to bed.
Susan Coolidge—Time to Go.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil.
| author = Cowper
| work = The Task. Bk. VI. L. 241.
| note =
| topic = Flowers
| page = 278
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Flowers are words
Which even a babe may understand.
Bishop Coxe—The Singing of Birds.
