










10 THE BOUQUET. 
A ee 
All waste before it. The red lava stream 
Sweeps like a pestilence; and that which was 
A garden for some fairy tale’s young queen, 
Is one wild desert, lost in burning sand. 
Thus it is with the heart. Love lights it up 
With one rich flush of beauty. Mark the end: 
Hopes that have quarrelled even with themselves, 
While the heart, scorched, and withered, and 
o’erwhelmed 
By passion’s earthquake, loathes the name of love. 
L. E. Lanvon. 
ANEMONE. 
ANEMONE VERNALIS. — Wind-flower. 
Anticipation. 
My lonely hours 
Are spent in shaping forth our future lives 
After my own romantic fantasies. 
L. E. Lanpon. 




THOov art now in thy dreaming time ; 
The green leaves on the bough, 
The sunshine turning them to gold, 
Are pleasures to thee now. 
L. E. Lanpon. 



