Floral Poetry. 
I care not that your little life 
Will quickly have run through, 
And the sward with summer children rife 
Keep not a trace of you. 
For again, again, on dewy plain, 
I trust to see you rise, 
When Spring renews the wild wood strain, 
And bluer gleam the skies. 
Again, again, when many springs 
Upon my grave shall shine, 
Here shall you speak of vanished things, 
To living hearts of mine. 
Mary Hewitt. 
TO A CROCUS, 
GROWING UP AND BLOSSOMING BENEATH A WALL-FLOWER. 
ELCOME, wild harbinger of Spring ! 
" * To this small nook of earth ; 
Feeling and fancy fondly cling 
Round thoughts which owe their birth 
To thee, and to the humble spot 
Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot. 
To thee—for thy rich golden bloom, 
Like heaven’s fair bow on high, 
Portends, amid surrounding gloom, 
That brighter hours draw nigh, 
When blossoms of more varied dyes 
Shall ope their tints to warmer skies. 
