

THE ANEMONE, 
Shout, shout to thy brothers, the forests, I said, 
And lead out the trees with a soldierly tread ; 
Thou art armed to the head, and hast many a plume,— 
So marshal the trees and avert their sad doom ; 
Enroll all their squadrons and lead out the van, 
And turn the swift axe on your murderer—man! 
But ah, thus I said evermore —ah, the trees, 
Though they wail in the tempest and sing in the breeze 
Have never a soul, and are rooted in earth! 
They live and they die where they spring into birth ; 
The stories of Dryads are only a dream, 
And trees are no more than they outwardly seem. 

The Anemone. 
Hartley Coleridge. 
Wye? would have thought a thing so slight, 
So frail a birth of warmth and light, 
A thing as weak as fear or shame, 
Bearing thy weakness in thy name— 
Who would have thought of seeing thee, 
Thou delicate Anemone! 
* * * * * 
What power has given thee to outlast 
The pelting rain, the driving blast— 













