400 R. H. STODDARD. 


Breaking his tender heart with love extreme, 
He saw thee on the earth amid thy flowers, 

The spirit of his dream ! 
Entranced with longings deep he called the air, 
And melting bodiless in the warm, sweet South, 

T'wined his invisible fingers in thy hair, 

And, stooping, kissed thee with his odorous mouth, 

And chased thee flying in thy garden shades, 

And wooed, as men are wont to woo the maids, 
And won at last, and then flew back to heaven, 


Pleading with Jove till his consent was given, 

And thou wert made immortal,—happy day !|— 

The goddess of the flowers and Queen of May ! 
Oh Flora, sweetest Flora, hear us now, 
Gathered to worship thee in shady bowers; 
Accept the benediction and the vow 
We offer thee that thou hast spared the flowers ; 
The Spring has been a cold belated one, 
Dark clouds and showers, and a little sun, 
And in the nipping mornings, hoary frost ; 
We hoped, but feared the tender seeds were lost, 
But, thanks to thee, at last they ’gan to grow, 



Pushing their slender shoots above the ground 
In cultured gardens trim, and some were found 
Beside the edges of the banks of snow, 
Like spring-thoughts in the heart of Winter old, 
Or children laughing o’er a father’s mould. 


