Taken wing! swing! "There my Mary blessed me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land - There's the gate on which I used to There my Mary blessed me with her hand. "I have come to see that grave once more, And the sacred place where we de lighted, And showed the names whom love of rest! STANZAS FROM SONG OF THE FLOWERS. WE are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us what our beauty saith;) Utterance, mute and bright, All who see us love us — Unto sorrow we give smiles-and unto graces, graces. Mark our ways, how noiseless Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence In silence build our bowers And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers! But come rather, thou, good weather, | Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be And find us in the fields together. ill-used brothers! O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing,- You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven, O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. — ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 66 The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, |