CROCUS. 91 



THE AUTUMNAL CROCUS. 



HOWITT. 



Thy bower, with vine unshaded, 



Stands desolate and lone; 

 The flowers of spring have faded, 



The summer birds are flown. 

 Thy home — whose claims are stronger 



Than time can e'er efface; 

 Thy garden — thine no longer — 



Have lost each look of grace: 

 For the stranger's foot has gone there, and left a ruin'd 



place. 



The past came o'er my spirit — 



Thy kindness, and thy faith ; 

 And must thou grief inherit, 



And life's undreamed-of scathe? 

 Is it thou — the gentlest, fairest, 



Like man must nerve thy heart. 

 And teach him how thou darest 



Meet fortune's keenest dart; 

 Then look on all thou loved from youth, and patiently 



depart ? 



9 



