Classic Poem

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, bright love, that never can decay!
I sent thee flowers, my dearest! and I deem
That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words,
Whose music, clearer than the notes of birds,
Though breathed to thee alone, perchance will seem
Most eloquent of feelings unexpressed:
Oh, wreathe them in those masses of dark hair,
Let them repose upon that forehead fair,
And to that bosom's yielding snow be pressed:
Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal
The love that maiden coyness would conceal.