MAY loi 



can possibly desire. The beautiful pale-blue Anemone 

 a/pennina is now nodding its little blue heads under my 

 big trees. In the far-away days of my childhood — it 

 must have been in the 'Forties — a really typical man-of- 

 the-world presented my mother with four well-bound 

 volumes of Mrs. Hemans' poems. Imagine any man 

 giving such a present now ! And yet she wrote some 

 pretty things, of which the following is a specimen, and 

 certainly it is quite as good as many modern flower- 

 poems ; — 



TO THE BLUE ANEMONE 



flower of starry clearness bright, 

 Quivering urn of coloured light. 

 Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye 

 From the iutenseness of the sky ? 

 From a long, long fervent gaze 

 Through the year's first golden days 

 Up that blue and silent deep 

 Where, Hke things of sculptured sleep. 

 Alabaster clouds repose 

 With the sunshine on their snows ? 

 Thither was thy heart's love turning. 

 Like a censer ever burning. 

 Till the purple heavens in thee 

 Set their smile, anemone 1 



Or can those warm tints be caught 



Each from some quick glow of thought ? 



So much of bright soul there seems 



In thy bendings and thy gleams. 



So much thy sweet life resembles 



That which feels and weeps and trembles, 



I could deem thee spirit-filled 



As a reed by music thrilled 



When thy being 1 behold 



In each loving breath unfold. 



Or, like woman's willowy form. 



Shrink before the gathering storm, 



I could ask a voice from thee 



Delicate anemone. 



