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And Kate, the light butterfly Kate, ever gay:
But Julia for me, with her heart in her eyes,
All are lovely, all blossom of heart and of mind;
With gentleness might, and with weakness, what
THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE
BY E. ELLIOTT.
BEFORE thy leaves thou com’st once more,
White blossom of the sloe!
Will then lie low.
A month at least before thy time
Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.
Why here in winter? No storm lours
O'er nature's silent shroud !
In beauty bow'd.
Sweet violets in the budding grove
Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love
Sing to the sun,
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,
Hears bees chant hymns to God,
And dasied sod.
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,
And thinks me slow.
For as the rainbow of the dawn
Foretells an eve of tears,
In early years.
Thy leaves will come! but songful spring
Will see no leaf of mine ;
Where no suns shine.
Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath
When June's sweet Sabbaths chime !
Before my time.