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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
D arlings of the forest! 
Blossoming alone, 
When earth’s grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone, 
Ere the last snow drift melts, your tender buds are blown. 
Fringed with color faintly, 
Like the morning sky, 
Of, more pale and saintly, 
Wrapped in leaves ve lie, 
Even as children sleep in faith’s simplicity. 
There the wild-wood robin 
Hymns your solitude ; 
And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude. 
Were your pure lips fashioned 
Out of air and dew, 
Starlight unimpassioned 
Dawn’s most tender hue, 
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you ? 
Fairest and most lonely, 
, From the world apart; 
Made for beauty only, 
Veiled from Nature’s heart 
With such unconscious grace as wakes the dream of Art. 
Were not mortal sorrow 
An immortal shade, 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made, 
Arid live in the dear woods, where my lost childhood played. 
Rose Terry Cooke. 
“ I am Storm —the King ! 
My troops are the wind, and the hail, and the rain; 
My foes are the woods and the feathery grain. 
The mail-clad oak 
He gnarls his front-to my charge and stroke.” 
Francis M. Finch, The Storm King. 
