Flowers:

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance--pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts . . . There's fennel for you, and columbines.  There's rue for you.  And here's some for me.  We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays.  You must wear your rue with a difference.
There's a daisy.  I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.  They say he made a good end. (Ophelia)

There is a willow grows aslant the brook
That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies and long purples
Which liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.  Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element.  But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death. (Gertrude)