Kate Greenaway,
Language of Flowers
“ And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a while; And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. Burns. Virgins promised when I died, That they would each primrose-tide Duly, morn and evening, come, And with flowers dress my tomb. —Having promised, pay your debts, Maids, and here strew violets. Robert Herrick. Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours when sweet violets sicken, Love within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed ”
