The Language of Flowers is a poem written by Leigh Hunt in 1857. Hunt was many things: poet, political writer and essayist, he played host to some of the greatest minds of his age, even when the world in general didn't appreciate them, including both John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Hunt, unlike many of his contemporary poets, had more fame and readership in his lifetime than after it. His verse is charming, often silly, and somewhat derivative, so naturally he pales when compared with the other poets he associated with.
There is a casual ease to Hunt's poetry that Keats and Shelley do not have, and this poem, while it doesn't bring about great revelations, or force me to think differently about things, cannot fail to make me smile.
The Language of Flowers
Whate delight, in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs and passionate declarations
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach;
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering, every day, one's pathos!