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.

[Pg 4]

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,

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