  On receiving sprigs of Forget-me-not and Lilly-of-the-Valley in envelope, through mail, with no note or name inclosed. In form it was a letter, Unique in its every part, The expression could not be better, For it touched my inmost heart. No pen had marred its beauty, No ink had traced a line, It did its silent duty Like a messenger divine. Upon its page was written No English, French, nor Greek; But a universal language That only flowers can speak. The colors were pure whiteness And heavenly tints of blue, Excelling all the brightness That art can bring to view. The Lily-of-the-Valley And sweet Forget-me-not, That grow where perfumes dally In sweet secluded spot, When sent to tell some story That words cannot express, Are fraught with special glory And richest tenderness. Their perfumes speak of gladness, Their colors of delight, They neutralize dull sadness, Turn darkness into light. They link the heart of sender To heart to which they're sent, And unto both will render The sweetness of content. I love them for their clearness, Their whiteness and their blue; But added to such dearness Is the thought they came from you. |
|
