Of the many touching tributes paid to flowers, there is a beautiful one
associated with the closing hours of Henry Heine, the poet. He was dying
in Paris. The doctor was paying his usual visit, when Heine pressed his
hand and said: "Doctor, you are my friend, I ask a last favor. Tell me
the truth--the end is approaching, is it not?"
The doctor was silent.
"Thank you," said Heine calmly.
"Have you any request to make?" asked the doctor, moved to tears.
"Yes," replied the poet; "my wife sleeps--do not disturb her. Take from
the table the fragrant flowers she brought me this morning. I love
flowers so dearly. Thanks--place them upon my breast." He paused, as he
inhaled their perfume. His eyes closed, and he murmured: "Flowers,
flowers, how beautiful is Nature!" These were his last words.