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er than light. Now the morning-star pales 

 out of sight in the pink heaven. All the 

 horns of Elfland blow a faint, final fanfare. 

 The sprites pelt one the other with diadem 

 and coronet and wreathen ropes of pearl, 

 A bird sings loud and clear, the white light 

 strengthens, and drowsy-eyed folk who know 

 not fairies look abroad, and see roses red 

 or pale or white all dipped and decked, in 

 dew. 



What sight so fair, even to every-day eyes ? 

 Queen Rose is the poet of blossoms no less 

 than the blossom of poets. Here in this 

 corner is sweetbrier, breathing out a lyric 

 tinged with savor of the woodlands, from 

 branches beset with small, pale, shrinking 

 flowers. Too small for all her soul of per- 

 fume, it exhales from the leaves as well. 

 Beyond comes a border all awreath with 

 golden bloom. Truly its splendor is epic. 

 No Field of the Cloth of Gold can outvie 

 this its name-flower. It is vividly vital 

 a picture of rampant growth and blowth. 

 All the wide trellis is overrun and bestarred 

 with golden blossoms, yet long new trails 

 lie on the earth about the root. 



And what royal grace clings and abides in 

 even the half-open buds ! True aristocrats, 

 they grace any station whereunto they may 



