112 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



These are thy wonders, Lord of love, 

 To make us see we are but flowers that glide : 



Which when we once can find and prove, 

 Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. 

 Who would be more, 

 Swelling through store, 

 Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. 



GEORGE HERBERT. 



A CHANTED CALENDAR 



FIRST came the primrose, 



On the bank high, 



Like a maiden looking forth 



From the window of a tower 



When the battle rolls below, 



So look'd she, 



And saw the storms go by. 



Then came the wind-flower 

 In the valley left behind, 

 As a wounded maiden, pale 

 With purple streaks of woe, 

 When the battle has roll'd by 

 Wanders to and fro, 

 So totter'd she, 

 Dishevell'd in the wind. 



Then came the daisies, 

 On the first of May, 



