FLORA’S DIAL. 175 
December 31. 
APPLE BLOSSOM. — He •prefers you. 
I love the glance of the gray-eyed morn, 
When he springs from his dewy sleep ! 
And rustles the ranks of the growing corn, 
And dabbles the dew on the verdant lawn, — 
The night does naught hut weep ! 
But the morn comes on with shout and song, 
And he carols a stave as he hounds along, — 
The morn before the gloomy night! — 
But oh! my heart’s boast and delight, — 
You, before the mom! J. W. H. 
