TOKENS. 



A S tired children, when the night comes on, 



Touched by the magic wand of sleep, let fall 

 Their baby treasures, trifles that recall 

 The pretty story of the day that 's gone, 

 So last year's flowers, asleep beneath the snow, 

 Dear tokens of their little day have left, 

 Twice dear since of themselves we are bereft. 

 Mitchella's coral beads lie all aglow 

 On the cold ground; the sweet-brier's scarlet urn 

 Holds precious memories of bud and bloom, 

 Embalmed with hope of roses yet to come; 

 By the bound brook the alder-berries burn 

 Athwart the gloom ; and in the barren fields 

 Faint fragrance still life-everlasting yields. 



55 



