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of heavy perfume come up from the clover. 

 Woods and hedge-rows send out the vanilla 

 sweetness of grape blossoms the scent 

 that, of all others, embodies the soul of 

 summer. Garden air is well-nigh faint 

 with odor of rose and lily and primrose and 

 honeysuckle. Only the spice of clove-pinks 

 redeems it accents with vivid sweetness 

 what would else be overpowering. Helio- 

 tropes, marigolds, four-o'clocks, verbenas, 

 phlox, petunias, are true sun -flowers. A 

 lowering day they fold up their bright hues, 

 and stand stern, sad -colored, patient 

 awaiting the downpour. There is something 

 wonderfully human about these sun-lovers. 

 If fate sets them in shade, they will grow 

 tall with all their might, and creep and bend 

 and twist, with never a sign of blossom, 

 until they reach the sun-blaze. Often they 

 are so spent in the reaching that the flower, 

 when it comes, is but a poor ghost of blos- 

 som, whose pallor not even the sun -kiss 

 can flush. 



Roses love sunshine fairly well. They 

 run riot in the dashing of warm rain. Buds 

 unfold as by magic ; blown flowers bare 

 their hearts ; faded ones dance earthward 

 in long drifts of shed petals. If the rain 

 turns chill, the "rose would shut and be a 



