What grace was there that flower had not? 

 'Twas but a moment, o'er the rose 

 A veil of moss the angel throws, 

 And, robed in nature's simplest weed, 

 Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 



From the German of Krummacher. 



Clje 



"The Garden Hypnotist" 



The poppy, though brief of days, is the garden 

 hypnotist. Look steadily at a mass of these glowing 

 flowers blending their multicolors in the full sunlight. 

 At first their brilliancy is blinding; then as the pet- 

 als undulate on the slender stems, your attention is 

 riveted as if a hundred eyes returned your gaze, and 

 drowsiness steals over you, for each flower bears the 

 spell of the hypnotic pod, whose seeds bring sleep. 



" The Garden of a Commuter's Wife." 



(Mabel Osgood Wright.'} 



We are slumbrous poppies 



Lords of Lethe downs, 

 Some awake, and some asleep, 



Sleeping in our crowns. 

 What perchance our dreams may know, 

 Let our serious beauty show. 



Leigh Hunt. 



I have in my hand a small red Poppy which I 

 gathered on Whit-Sunday in the palace of the Caesars. 

 It is an intensely simple, intensely floral flower. 

 All silk and flame, a scarlet cup ! perfect edged all 

 round, seen among the wild grass far away like a 

 burning coal fallen from Heaven's altars. You 

 cannot have a more complete, a more stainless type 



