Volume XII. 
AUGUST, 1883 . 
No. 8. 
o 
A cluster of Morning Glories, 
Purple and pink and white, 
She brought iu her fair young fingers, 
Holding them up to the light. 
“ Out of my own little garden, 
Mamma, I picked them for you: 
Which do you think is prettiest. 
Pink, or white, or blue?” 
“ Ah, now, my little daughter, 
Surely ’tis hard to say; 
Beautiful, graceful, daiuty things— 
Each in its own fair way.” 
And as I take her offering, 
Binding the short stems together. 
Plucked in the fashion of children 
Out in the sunshiny weather, 
■ Swiftly my heart hears a sermon— 
Triple its heads must be: 
Wonderful teachings these trumpets fair 
Are whispering to me. 
You, O my rosy preacher, 
Typify all the glow, 
Grace and gladness and music, 
. Bird-song and brooklet flow. 
Light of the early morning, 
Roseate sunset flush, 
Blue of the noonday heaven, 
Moonlight, and midnight hush— 
Crowd in your tented chalice 
Memories of love and bliss, 
Dreamings'in broad, green mealows, 
Rapture of holiest kiss— 
Standing as symbols of beauty, 
Only of gladness convoy, 
Art thou, O pink Morning Glory, 
Fairest, since preacher of joy? 
Close to the flush of thy gladness, 
Clear and intense in thy blue, 
Look up ! preacher my second, 
I wait thy message so true. 
With but a leaf stir between them 
Sorrow and joy must abide, 
“ (Violet and purple for suffering)” 
Shade to glow, cheek to cheek, side 
by side. 
Yet, O my Morning Glory, 
Even thou mergest at length 
Into a white-throated trumpet. 
Bom of thy root and thy strength! 
