To a Lady with a Bouquet

Flowers are love's truest language; they betray,
Like the divining rods of Magi old,
Where priceless 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 unexpress'd.
O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair!
Let them repose upon thy forehead fair,
And on thy bosom's yielding snow be press'd!
Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal
The love that maiden coyness would conceal!