







324 
MILNES. 
But oft the plant, whose leaves unsere 
Refresh the desert, hardly brooks 
The common peopled atmosphere 
Of daily thoughts, and words, and looks; 
It trembles at the brushing wings 
Of many a careless fashion fly, 
And strange suspicions aim their stings 
To taint it as they wanton by. 
Rare is the heart to bear a flower, 
That must not wholly fall or fade 
Where alien feelings, hour by hour, 
Spring up, beset, and overshade ; 
Better, a child of care and toil, 
To glorify some needy spot, 
Than in a glad, redundant soil 
To pine neglected and forgot. 
Yet when, at last, by human slight, 
Or close of their permitted day, 
From the bright world of life and light 
Such fine creations lapse away,— 
Bury the relics that retain 
Sick odors of departed pride,— 
Hoard, as ye will, your memory’s gain, 
But leave the blossoms where they died. 
