flora’s dial. 
129 
September 24. 
CRESSES. — Roving. 
I have no wife! and like a wave, 
Can float away to any land, 
Curl up and kiss, or gently lave 
The sweetest flowers that are at hand. 
A pilgrim, I can bend before 
The shrine which heart and mind approve, 
Or, Persian-like, I can adore 
Each star that gems the heaven of Love. 
Anon. 
September 25. 
CROCUS. — I am his. 
He ’ll never die for love I know! 
He flirts and kneels at many shrines! 
He ’ll never die for love, nor wear 
Upon his brow the mark of care. 
I love him, but I can’t say why; 
And though for me he would not die, 
I feel that I should love to lie 
In the cold grave all silently, 
If he would strew upon my bier 
Sweet flowrets wet with one true tear. 
Anon. 
a 
