The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores

This Princess of the air; The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, "Ah! come, lest I despair; "

The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns Quiver and thrill within,

As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch

Of yellow jessamine.

The garden-roses wonder as they see

The wreaths of golden bloom,

Brought in from the far woods with eager haste

To deck the poorest room,

The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands

Give sprays to all they meet,

Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go,

And all the air is sweet.

The Southern land, well weary of its green
Which may not fall nor fade,

Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower
With leaves of fresher shade;
The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees
Their fragrant work begin:

The spring has come - has come to Florida,
With yellow jessamine.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON

THE PETRIFIED FERN

IN a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,

Drops of dew stole in by night, and
crowned it,

But no foot of man e'er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,

Stately forests waved their giant branches,

Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;

THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR ALL ye who love the springtime — and who but loves it well

When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell! —

Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so dear,

Till ye look upon old Ireland, in the dawning o' the year!

For where in all the earth is there any joy like this,

When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into bliss,

While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown mottled throats, Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow notes;

And the blackbird on the hedge in the

golden sunset glow

Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny nest below;

And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves of the boreen,

And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' the green!

For 't is green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray,

And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and day;

Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall,

And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all.

There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set

A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and wet;

Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow,

And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below.

When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell!

Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear

Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o' the year!

MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE

THE WILLIS

THE Willis are out to-night, In the ghostly pale moonlight, With robes and faces white.

Swiftly they circle round,
And make not any sound,
Nor footprint on the ground.

The forest is asleep;
All things that fly or creep
A death-like silence keep.

A fear is over all;

From spectral trees and tall
The gathering night-dews fall.
Moveless are leaf and limb,
While through the forest dim
Slow glides a figure slim.

A figure slim and fair,
With loosened, streaming hair,
Watching the Willis there!

"These are the ghosts," she said, "Of hapless ones unwed,

Who loved and now are dead."

Her hair was drenched with dew; The moonlight shimmered through, And showed its raven hue.

"Each one of these," she cried, "Or ever she was a bride, For love's sake sinned and died."

"I come," she said, "I too;
Ye are by one too few,"
And joined the phantom crew.

Swiftly they circled round,
Nor was there any sound,
Nor footprint on the ground.

DAVID LAW Proudfit

WOULD the lark sing the sweeter if he knew

A thousand hearts hung breathless on his lay?

And if "How fair!" the rose could hear us say,

Would she, her primal fairness to.outdo, Take on a richer scent, a lovelier hue? Who knows or cares to answer yea or nay?

O tuneful lark! sail, singing, on your way, Brimmed with excess of ecstasy; and you, Sweet rose ! renew with every perfect June Your perfect blossoming! Still Naturewise,

Sing, bloom, because ye must, and not for praise.

If only we, who covet the fair boon

Of well-earned fame, and wonder where it lies,

Would read the secret in your simple ways!

RECONCILIATION

If thou wert lying cold and still and white
In death's embraces, O mine enemy!
I think that if I came and looked on thee,
I should forgive; that something in the
sight

Of thy still face would conquer me, by right
Of death's sad impotence, and I should

see

How pitiful a thing it is to be

At feud with aught that's mortal. So tonight,

My soul, unfurling her white flag of peace, Forestalling that dread hour when we may

The birds all sing of you, my darling one; Your day was just begun,

But you had learned to love all things that grew;

And when I linger by the streamlet's side Where weed and bush to you were glorified,

The violet looks up as if it knew,

And talks to me of you.

The lily dreams of you. The pensive rose Reveals you where it glows

In purple trance above the waterfall;

The fragrant fern rejoices by the pond, And sets your dear face in its feathery frond;

The winds blow chill, but, sounding over all, I hear your sweet voice call!

My gentle daughter! With us you have stayed.

Your life doth never fade! O, evermore I see your blue eyes shine. In subtle moods I cannot understand, I feel the flutter of your tender hand That slipped at dawn, almost without a sign,

So softly out of mine!

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS CRoffut

WAITING

SERENE, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;