
POETRY OF 
ORANGE FLOWERS. 
Bind the white orange flowers in her hair ; 
Soft be their shadow, soft and somewhat pale, 
For they are omens. Many anxious years 
Are on the wreath that bends the bridal veil. 
The maiden leaves her childhood and her home, 
All that the past had known of happy hours, 
Perhaps her happiest ones—well may there be 
A faint, wan color, in those orange flowers. 
For they are pale as hope, and hope is pale 
With earnest watching over future years, 
With all the promise of their loveliness, 
The bride and morning bathe their wreath in 
tears. 
L. E. Lanpoy. 
THE WILD HONEY-SUCKLE. 
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 
Aid in this silent, dull retreat, 
Untouched thy honeyed blossoms blow, 
Unseen thy little branches greet: 




















