Giving flowers is already saying something.
You don’t need a dictionary to get the message across.
And yet, since the 18th century, we’ve been invited to decode every petal.
A red rose for passionate love, a peony for shyness, a daisy for innocence...
But where does this flowery language come from?
Is it universal?
And above all — does it still make sense today?
The “language of flowers” as we know it today isn’t some ancient tradition.
It largely emerged during the Romantic era in Europe, inspired in part by the 18th-century fascination with everything oriental.
That’s when people discovered the selams — small floral arrangements popular in the Ottoman harems. Each flower carried a message, yes, but not only that: their color, number, and placement within the bouquet, all had meaning.
The idea quickly charmed English salons, then Parisian ones, reaching its peak during the Victorian era.
A very famous dictionary is The Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway, published in 1884. The book became a staple in Victorian drawing rooms but dozens of similar works also exist.
And here’s where things get messy: meanings varied wildly from one dictionary to another.
White lilac might symbolize youth in one, remembrance in another.
A red tulip could mean “declaration of love” in one book, and “pride” in another.
In short, this language is anything but fixed.
It’s fluid, subjective, and deeply tied to its time.
Today, florists, flower professionals (and marketers) have clearly understood the power of this language. It helps tell a story. It sells meaning, not just a bouquet.
Who hasn’t seen, around Valentine’s Day, a little tag claiming that a red rose says “I love you”?
It’s convenient. It’s appealing. And it works. But there’s a downside. By reducing flowers to a single emotion, we forget their complexity.
Their seasonality, their scent, their shape, their botanical history... all of that disappears behind a prepackaged message. In the end, people believe that giving peonies in January is a sign of love… when really it's more an ecological absurdity.
But what if, beyond being out of sync with the seasons, the language of flowers also reflected a Western, gendered – and even stereotyped – perspective?
In old books, as well as in some more recent content, flowers are often linked to so-called “feminine” qualities: modesty, loyalty, gentleness, motherhood…
The messages revolve almost exclusively around love, marriage, or betrayal. A highly coded universe, shaped by conventional social norms, where emotions are expected to follow fixed rules.
And in this rigid reading, flowers become almost exclusively a woman’s affair.
They’re given to seduce, comfort, or congratulate… but rarely offered to men. This imbalance, deeply rooted, still shapes our gestures today. And yet – it’s far from universal. In other cultures, offering flowers to men is entirely common.
It’s a simple, natural gesture. It conveys emotion without gendered meaning. A way to express appreciation, joy, or respect – with subtlety, and no need for overinterpretation.
Giving flowers isn't like translating a dictionary. It's a gesture, a connection, a thoughtful gesture. Perhaps you chose this bouquet because the colors speak to you. Because it reminds you of a garden, a person, a season. Or simply because it's beautiful.
And that's the real message.
Rather than trying to decipher centuries-old codes, why not listen to your own emotions?
Flowers have their own language, yes. But it communicates through the senses: the eyes, the nose, the hands. It doesn't need keywords to exist.
That said, the language of flowers remains a fascinating cultural object. Not to apply it literally, but to understand how a society speaks of love, modesty, or betrayal through nature.
If the subject intrigues you, here are some old works to browse freely online on archive.org :
Kate Greenaway – Language of flowers (1884)
C. M. Kirtland - Language and poetry of flowers (1884)
Mrs L. Burke - The miniature language of flowers (1865)
The artistic language of flowers (1890)
These books also allow us to take a step back. To see how meanings evolve, contradict each other, and sometimes repeat themselves. And to understand that this famous language is not an exact science, but rather a cultural construct.
For me, the language of flowers is a bit like a horoscope: pretty, entertaining, but not to be taken literally. It can serve as inspiration, a starting point, a poetic pretext. But it shouldn't replace the real connection you have with the person you're giving flowers to—nor the simple pleasure of choosing a bouquet that moves you, for no specific reason.
Giving a flower isn't reciting a code. It's saying, silently: "I was thinking of you."
And that's already a lot.
