THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE 



" I saw the sweetest flower wild Nature yields, 

 A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that 



threw 

 Its sweets upon the summer." — Keats. 



The twilight lingers, yearning for the 

 rosy dawn. The breeze, laden with 

 heavy odours, dissolves upon the earth 

 in dew. The ox-eye daisy bends to 

 the encircling grass, sighing: "He 

 loves; he loves me not." From the 

 hedge, the coral trumpets of the honey- 

 suckle declare its sweetness, and the 

 jewelled humming-bird pauses before 

 it vibrant. The wood thrush ceases 

 its song, and next the vesper-sparrow; 

 one final ripple from the bobolink, 

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