Print of a flower, dark brown ink on green paper
Flower XI

Overflowing with your dream,
flower within so many others,
wet as one who weeps,
you lean against the dawn.

Your gentle, sleeping powers,
in an uncertain longing,
trace the tender forms
of cheeks and breasts.

There’s rosemary, that’s for rememberance.
Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies,
that’s for thoughts.

Dried flowers pressed into the pages of a book with handwritten labels on them
Herbarium (ca 1839-1846)