The time is past ; — and now that grows 

 The cypress high among the trees, 

 And I behold white sepulchres 

 As well as the white rose, — 



When graver, meeker thoughts are given, 

 And I have learnt to lift my face. 

 Reminded how earth's greenest place 

 The colour draws from heaven, — 



It something saith for earthly pain. 

 But more for Heavenly promise free. 

 That I who was, would shrink to be 

 That happy child again. 



E. B. BROWNING. 



IN YON GARDEN 



N yon garden fine and gay. 

 Picking lilies a' the day, 

 •Gathering flowers o' ilka hue, 

 I wistna then what love could do. 



Where love is planted there it grows ; 

 It buds and blooms like any rose ; 

 It has a sweet and pleasant smell ; 

 No flower on earth can it excel. 



I put my hand into the bush. 



And thought the sweetest rose to find ; 

 But pricked my finger to the bone, 



And left the sweetest rose behind. 



ANON. 

 67 



