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 faffing. 
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 wse and set. 
To bloom unchanged, any Mignonette ! 
Mary E. Eradlev. 
EVENING PRIMROSE. 
A TUFT of Evening Primroses, 
O’er which the wind may hover ’till it dozes ; 
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
Put that'his ever startled by the leap 
Of buds auto' ripe flowers. Keats. 
