VI. Flowers

In the trembling grey of a spring dawn, when the birds were
whispering in mysterious cadence among the trees, have you
not felt that they were talking to their mates about the flowers?
Surely with mankind the appreciation of flowers must have
been coeval with the poetry of love. Where better than in a
flower, sweet in its unconsciousness, fragrant because of its
silence, can we image the unfolding of a virgin soul? The primeval
man in offering the first garland to his maiden thereby transcended
the brute. He became human in thus rising above the crude
necessities of nature. He entered the realm of art when he
perceived the subtle use of the useless.

In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends. We eat, drink,
sing, dance, and flirt with them. We wed and christen with flowers.
We dare not die without them. We have worshipped with the lily,
we have meditated with the lotus, we have charged in battle array
with the rose and the chrysanthemum. We have even attempted to
speak in the language of flowers. How could we live without them?
It frightens one to conceive of a world bereft of their presence.
What solace do they not bring to the bedside of the sick, what a
light of bliss to the darkness of weary spirits? Their serene tenderness
restores to us our waning confidence in the universe even as the
intent gaze of a beautiful child recalls our lost hopes. When we are
laid low in the dust it is they who linger in sorrow over our graves.

Sad as it is, we cannot conceal the fact that in spite of our
companionship with flowers we have not risen very far above
the brute. Scratch the sheepskin and the wolf within us will soon