108 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



Neighbor Cinnamon prated of household and care — 

 How she seldom went out, e'en to breathe the fresh air ; 

 There were so many young ones and servants to stray, 

 And the thorns grew so fast if her eye was away. 

 "Cousin Moss-Rose," she said, "you who live like a queen. 

 And ne'er wet your fingers, scarce know what I mean." 

 So that notable lady went on with her lay, 

 'Till the auditors yawned and stole softly away. 



ROSE-BUDS IN HER HAND. 



" How beautiful those rose-buds are !" 



The happy brother said, 

 Whose hopeful heart could have no thought 



That sister could be dead : 

 " I'll pluck them for sweet sister now, 



And take them where she lies ; 

 I know she '11 love to see them there, 



When open are her eyes." 



He pluck'd them for his sister dear. 



And bore them to her hand ; 

 But to his trustful soul there came 



No dark and shadowy band, 

 As to the eye so often comes 



Around the form of Death, 

 To bring but sorrow when at last 



Is breathed the parting breath, 



O beautiful those buds appear'd. 

 Sweet types of childhood's trust, 



That opens only to give sweets 

 To breathe o'er human dust ! 



