THE FLORAL OFFERING. 
The dew refuseth not to bathe the dusty wayside flowers, 
Restoring to the faded grass the green of vernal hours; 
And though the faith were all disproved another hath professed, 
The withered soul may be revived upon a loving breast. 
I would not blush to give away whatever I possess 
Of artless and confiding faith, and woman’s tenderness; 
I would not blush to wrap my thoughts around one pulse that thrills 
With the delicious sense of life, that all my being fills. 
Though love is widowed of its trust, and weeps the living death, 
And Genius, bending to its clay, foregoes the ivy wreath, 
The only night that I could know would be the soul’s eclipse, 
The guile that worketh at the heart—the falsehood on the lips. 
Picciola. 
i 
