hey can scarcely have dealings with death.
Can it be, that the dying breath,
That comes from the one last beat
Of a true heart, turns to the flowers?

"Violets! Violets! Violets!"
The crier is near me at last.
With my eyes I am holding her fast.
She is a lovely seller of flowers.
She is one whom the town devours
In its jaws of bustle and strife.
How poverty grinds down a life;
For, lost in the slime of a city,
What is a beautiful face?
Few are they who have pity
For loveliness in disgrace.
Yet she that I hold with my eyes,
Who seems so modest and wise,
Has not yet fallen, I am sure.
She has nobly learned to endure.
Large, and mournful, and meek,
Her eyes seem to drink from my own.
Her curls are carelessly thrown
Back from white shoulder and cheek;
And her lips seem strawberries, lost
In some Arctic country of frost.
The slightest curve on a face,
May give an expression unmeet;
Yet hers is so perfect and sweet,
And shaped with such delicate grace,
Its loveliness is complete.

"Violets! Violets! Violets!"
I hear the cry once more;
But not as I heard it before.
It whispers no more of death;
But only of odorous breath,
And modest flowers, and life.
I purchased a cluster, so rife
With the touch of her tapering hand,
I seem to hold it in mine.
I would I could understand,
Why a touch seems so divine.

II.

A FLOWER FOUND IN THE STREET.

To-day in passing down the street,
I found a flower upon the walk,
A dear syringa, white and sweet,
Wrung idly from the missing stalk.

And something in its odor speaks
Of dark brown eyes, and arms of snow,
And rainbow smiles on sunset cheeks--
The maid I saw a month ago.

I waited for her many a day,
On the dear ground where first we met;
I sought her up and down the way,
And all in vain I seek her yet.

Syringa, naught your odor tells,
Or whispers so I cannot hear;
Speak out, and tell me where she dwells,
In perfume accents, loud and clear.

Shake out the music of your speech,
In quavers of delicious breath;
The conscious melody may teach
A lover where love wandereth.

If so you speak, with smile and look,
You will not wither, but endure;
And in my heart's still open book,
Keep your white petals ever pure.

If so you speak, upon her breast
You yet may rest, nor sigh afar;
But in the moonlight's silver dressed,
Seem 'gainst your heaven the evening star.