"How do you know, deep underground, Hid in your bed from sight and sound, Without a turn in temperature, With weather life can scarce endure, That light has won a fraction’s strength, And day put on some moments’ length, Whereof in merest rote will come, Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; O crocus root, how do you know, How do you know?"

"Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority!"

"Some yellow saffrons pluck’d in wrestling speed; The leaves lay strewn along the vernal mead."

"Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire."

"Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth's prolific lap."

"Heart's ease! one could look for half a day Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, That gave this gentle name."

"The delicate thought, that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air."

"They are all in the lily-bed, cuddled close together- Purple, Yellow-cap, and little Baby-blue; How they ever got there you must ask the April weather, The morning and the evening winds, the sunshine and the dew."

"I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts."

"Pansies? You praise the ones that grow today Here in the garden; had you seen the place When Sutherland was living! Here they grew, From blue to deeper blue, in midst of each A golden dazzle like a glimmering star, Each broader, bigger than a silver crown; While here the weaver sat, his labor done, Watching his azure pets and rearing them, Until they seem'd to know his step and touch, And stir beneath his smile like living things: The very sunshine loved them, and would lie Here happy, coming early, lingering late, Because they were so fair."

"I send thee pansies while the year is young, Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night; Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light; And if in recollection lives regret For wasted days and dreams that were not true, I tell thee that the "pansy freak'd with jet" Is still the heart's ease that the poets knew Take all the sweetness of a gift unsought, And for the pansies send me back a thought."

"The beauteous pansies rise In purple, gold, and blue, With tints of rainbow hue Mocking the sunset skies."

"The bolt of Cupid fell: * * * upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness."

"Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts."

"Darker than darkest pansies."

"Pansies for ladies all–(I wis That none who wear such brooches miss A jewel in the mirror)."

"The pansy freaked with jet. That is true"

"Heart's ease or pansy, pleasure or thought, Which would the picture give us of these? Surely the heart that conceived it sought Heart's ease."

"A waft from the roadside bank Tells where the wild rose nods."

"A brier rose, whose buds Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee."

"The fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, Those odours were of power to raise from death."

"And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eyes."

"Wild-rose, Sweetbriar, Eglantine, All these pretty names are mine, And scent in every leaf is mine, And a leaf for all is mine, And the scent—Oh, that's divine! Happy-sweet and pungent fine, Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine."

"Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir And tumult of defeated dreams."

"The budding rose above the rose full blown."

"I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer."

"Rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun."

"Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows. When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be."

"The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!"

"How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower. The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field; When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!"

"And half in shade and half in sun; The Rose sat in her bower, With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart."

"The year of the rose is brief; From the first blade blown to the sheaf, From the thin green leaf to the gold, It has time to be sweet and grow old, To triumph and leave not a leaf."

"And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose?"

"Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they be withered."

"Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine."

"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."

"The red rose on triumphant brier."

"Should this fair rose offend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, 'Twill blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there."

"There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies."

"Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed."

"Hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose."

"I am the one rich thing that morn Leaves for the ardent noon to win; Grasp me not, I have a thorn, But bend and take my being in."

"I watched a rose-bud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then when I thought it should be strong It opened at the matin hour And fell at even-song."

"The rose saith in the dewy morn, I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn."

"The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears."

"We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses, Dewy as the morning and coloured like the dawn; Little tents of odour, where the bee reposes, Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon."

"And when the parent-rose decays and dies, With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise."

"Die Rose blüht nicht ohne Dornen. Ja: wenn nur aber nicht die Dornen die Rose überlebten."

"From off this brier pluck a white rose with me."

"It was nothing but a rose I gave her,— Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows. * * * * * Withered, faded, pressed between these pages, Crumpled, fold on fold,— Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!"