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There is a language giv'n to flowers,
 By which a lover may impart
The bitter anguish that devours,
Or extacy that swells his heart.
And all the feelings of the breast,
Between the extremes of bliss and wo,
By tender flow'rets are exprest,
Or plants that in the wild wood grow.
These new-cull'd blossoms which I send,
With breath so sweet and tints so gay,
I truly know not, my kind friend,
In Flora's language what they say;
Nor which one hue I should select,
Nor how they all should be combin'd,
That at a glance, you might detect
The true emotions of my mind.
But, as the rainbow's varied hues,
If mingled in proportions right,
All their distinctive radiance lose,
And only show unspotted white,
Thus, into one I would combine
These colors that so various gleam,
And bid this offering only shine
With friendship's pure and tranquil beam.
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