When God cut holes in Heaven,

The holes the stars look through,

He let the scraps fall down to earth,
The little scraps are you.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mold,
And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they who climb to wealth forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried;
I copied them — but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die,

As your hours do, and dry
Away

Like to the summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places,

Smile meek moonlight-colored faces

Of pale primroses puritan,

In maiden sisterhood demure;

Each virgin floweret faint and wan

With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.

And the borage, blue-eyed, with a thrill of pride
(For warm is her welcome on every side),
From Elfland coming to take her place,
Gay garments of verdant velvet takes

All creased from the delicate traveling-case
Which a warm breeze breaks.

The daisy awakes

And opens her wondering eyes, yet red

About the rims with a too long sleep;

Whilst, bold from his ambush, with helm on head And lance in rest, doth the bulrush leap.

- Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton (Owen Meredith).

I

THE DAFFODILS.

WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay;

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;

I gazed

and gazed- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

- William Wordsworth.

THE BLUE JAY.

BLUE JAY up in the maple tree,

Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee,

How did you happen to be so blue?

Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest,
And fasten blue violets into your vest?
Tell me, I pray you, - tell me true!

Did you dip your wings in azure dye,
When April began to paint the sky,
That was pale with the winter's stay?
Or were you hatched from a bluebell bright,
'Neath the warm, gold breast of a sunbeam light,
By the river one blue spring day?

O Blue Jay up in the maple tree,
A-tossing your saucy head at me,
With ne'er a word for my questioning,
Pray, cease for a moment your “ting-a-link,”
And hear when I tell you what I think,
You bonniest bit of the spring.