FLOWERS BY THE POETS. 
I passed outside her garden-gate, 
And left her proudly smiling : 
Her roses bloomed too late, too late, 
She saw, for my beguiling. 
I wore instead—and wear it yet— 
The single spray of Mignonette. 
Its fragrance greets me unaware, 
A vision clear recalling 
Of shy, sweet eyes, and drooping hair 
In girlish tresses falling. 
And little hands so white and fine 
That timidly creep into mine. 
As she—all ignorant of the arts 
That wiser maids are plying— 
Has crept into my heart of hearts 
Past doubting or denying ; 
Therein, while suns shall rise and set, 
To bloom unchanged, my Mignonette ! 
Mary E. Bradley,- 
EVENING PRIMROSE. 
A tuft of Evening Primroses, 
O'er which the wind may hover ’till it dozes ; 
O’er which it well might tak^ a pleasant sleep. 
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers. Keats*. 
