The Language Of Flowers.
By Thomas Moore
Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking. And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing, Ah, well she'll know how sweet The words of love thou'rt bringing. Yet, no--not words, for they But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing. A once bright rose's withered leaf, A towering lily broken,-- Oh these may paint a grief No words could e'er have spoken. Not such, my gay gazelle, The wreath thou speedest over Yon moonlight dale, to tell My lady how I love her. And, what to her will sweeter be Than gems the richest, rarest,-- From Truth's immortal tree[1] One fadeless leaf thou bearest.
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"Fly swift, my light gazelle,..."
"The Language Of Flowers." is a quintessential example of Thomas Moore's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...