MY HOLLYHOCK 95 



Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye ; 



The wind is up ; so ; drift away. 

 That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly, 

 I strive, I pray. 



II. WHITE 



Soul, get thee to the heart 



Of yonder tuberose : hide thee there 

 There breathe the meditations of thine art 

 Suffused with prayer. 



Of spirit grave yet light, 



How fervent fragrances uprise 



Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white 

 Virginities ! 



Mulched with unsavoury death, 



Grow, Soul ! unto such white estate, 

 That virginal, prayerful art shall be thy breath, 



Thy work, thy fate. 



SIDNEY LANIEH. 



MY HOLLYHOCK 



AH me, my scarlet hollyhock, 

 Whose stately head the breezes i'ock, 

 How sad, that in one night of frost 

 Thy radiant beauty shall be lost, 

 And all thy glory overthrown 

 Ere half thy ruby buds have blown ! 



