Park Benjamin (1809–1864)

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!

I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem

That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words,

Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds,

When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem

All eloquent of feelings unexpressed.

O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair!

Let them repose upon thy forehead fair,

And on thy bosom’s yielding snow be pressed!

Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal

The love that maiden coyness would conceal!