


THE BOUQUET. 



















YARROW. i 
ACHILLEA MILLEFOLIUM. 
Thou alone canst cure. 
Ir there is on earth a cure 
For the sunk heart —’t¢ ts this —day after day 
To be the blest companion of thy way; 
To hear thy angel eloquence — to see 
Those virtuous eyes forever turned on me ; 
And in their light rechastened silently, 
Like the stained web that whitens in the sun, 
Grow pure, by being purely shone upon. 
Moore. 




Fait me notthou. This feeling past, 
My heart would never rouse again. 
Thou art the brightest — but the last ; 
And if this trust, this love is vain — 

If thou, all peerless as thou art, 
Be not less fair than true of heart — 
My loves are o’er. The sun will shine 
Upon no grave so hushed as this dark breast of 
mine. WILLIs. 





