CROCUS. 
91 
THE AUTUMNAL CROCUS. 
HOWITT. 
Thy bower, with vine unshaded, 
Stands desolate and lone; 
The flowers of spring have faded, 
The summer birds are flown. 
Thy home — whose claims are stronger 
Than time can e’er efface; 
Thy garden — thine no longer — 
Have lost each look of grace: 
For the stranger’s foot has gone there, and left a ruin d 
place. 
The past came o’er my spirit — 
Thy kindness, and thy faith; 
And must thou grief inherit, 
And life’s undreamed-of scathe? 
Is it thou — the gentlest, fairest* 
Like man must nerve thy heart, 
And teach him how thou darest 
Meet fortune’s keenest dart; 
Then look on all thou loved from youth, and patiently 
depart ? 
9 
