Among the flowering stocks they stand:

A crimson rose is in his hand.

1

 Outside her garden. He waits musing.

Herein the dearness of her is;

The thirty perfect days of June

Made one, in maiden loveliness

Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss,

With love not more in tune.

Ah me! I think she is too true,

Too spiritual for life's rough way;

For in her eyes her soul looks new—

[Pg 10]

Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue,

Are not so pure as they.

So good, so beautiful is she,

So soft and white, so fond and fair,

Sometimes my heart fears she may be

Not long for me, and secretly

A sister of the air.

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