Oh, come to the river’s rim, come with us there, For the White Water-Lily is wondrous fair, With her large broad leaves on the stream afloat, Each one a capacious fairy-boat. The swan among flowers! How stately ride Her snow-white leaves on the glittering tide! And the Dragon-fly gallantly stays to sip A kiss of dew from her goblet’s lip. _Anon._ * * * * * The Lily on the water sleeping, Enwreathed with pearl, and bossed with gold, An emblem is, my love, of thee: But when she like a nymph is peeping, To watch her sister-buds unfold, White shouldered on the flowery lea, Gazing about in sweet amazement, Thy image, from the vine-clad casement, Seems looking out, my love, on me. _Miller._ * * * * * Little streams have flowers a many, Beautiful and fair as any; Typha strong, and green bur reed, Willow herb with cotton seed, Arrow head with eye of jet, And the Water-Violet; There the flowering Rush you meet, And the plumy meadow sweet, And in places deep and stilly Marble-like, the Water-Lily. _Mrs. Howitt._ MARIGOLD.... _Grief_. The Marigold is the conventional emblem of distress of mind. It is distinguished by many singular properties. It blossoms the whole year, and on that account, the Romans termed it the flower of the calends, or of all the months. Its flowers are open only from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon. They always follow the course of the sun, by turning from east to west as he proceeds upon his daily journey. In July and August these flowers emit, during the night, small luminous sparks. Alone, the Marigold expresses grief; interwoven with other flowers, the varied events of life; the cloud and sunshine of ill and good. * * * * * And see the flaunting Marigold, Gay from its marshy bed unfold Mid minor lights its disks that shine Like suns for brightness. _Anon._ * * * * * Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds! Dry up the moisture of your golden lids. _Keats._ * * * * * When, with a serious musing, I behold The grateful and obsequious Marigold, How duly, every morning, she displays Her open breast when Phœbus spreads his rays; How she observes him in his daily walk Still bending towards him her small slender stalk; How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, Bedewed as ’twere with tears till he returns. _Withers._ * * * * * I need not say how, one by one, Love’s flowers have dropped from off love’s chain, Enough to say that they are gone, And that they cannot bloom again. _Miss Landon._ * * * * *