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Why hast thou opened that forbidden door,
From which I ever flee?

O vanished joy! O love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odor through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.

THE VIOLET-GIRL.

HENRI MILNE.

When fancy will continually rehearse Some painful scene once present to the eye, "Tis well to mould it into gentle verse,

That it may lighter on the spirit lie.

Home yestern eve I wearily returned,
Though bright my morning mood and short my

way,

But sad experience, in one moment earned,
Can crush the heaped enjoyments of the day.

Passing the corner of a populous street,
I marked a girl whose wont it was to stand,
With pallid cheek, torn gown, and naked feet,
And bunches of fresh violets in each hand.

There her small commerce, in the chill March

weather,

She plied with accents miserably mild;

It was a frightful thought to set together
Those blooming blossoms and that fading child:-

Those luxuries and largess of the earth,
Beauty and pleasure to the sense of man,
And this poor sorry weed, cast loosely forth
On life's wild waste, to struggle as it can!

To me that odorous purple ministers
Hope-bearing memories and inspiring glee;
While meanest images alone are hers,—
The sordid wants of base humanity.

Think, after all this lapse of hungry hours
In the disfurnished chamber of dim cold,
How she must loathe the very scented flowers
That on the squalid table lie unsold!

Rest on your woodland banks and wither there,
Sweet preluders of spring! far better so
Than live misused to fill the grasp of care,
And serve the piteous purposes of woe.

BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME

NOT.

EUGENE FIELD.

Buttercup, poppy, forget-me-not—
These three bloomed in a garden spot,
And once, all merry with song and play,
A little one heard three voices say:
"Shine or shadow, summer or spring—
O thou child with the tangled hair,
And laughing eyes-we three shall bring
Each an offering, passing fair!"

The little one did not understand,

But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

Buttercup gambolled all day long,
Sharing the little one's mirth and song;
Then, stealing along on misty gleams,
Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams,
Playing and dreaming-that was all.

Till once the sleeper would not awake;
Kissing the little face under the pall,

We thought of the words the third flower

spake,

And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot

The solace and peace of forget-me-not.

Buttercup shareth the joy of day,
Glinting with gold the hours of play;

Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,

When the hands would fold and the eyes would close.

And after it all-the play and the sleep

Of a little life-what cometh then?
To the hearts that ache and the eyes that

weep

A wee flower bringeth God's peace again.

Each one serveth its tender lot—

Buttercup, poppy, forget-me-not.

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"You may uproot me

From field and from lane,
Trample me, cut me,-
I spring up again.

"I never flinch, Sir,
Wherever I dwell;
Give me an inch, Sir,
I'll soon take an ell.

"Drive me from garden
In anger and pride,
I'll thrive and harden
By the road-side.

"Not a bit fearful,

Showing my face,
Always so cheerful
In every place."

Said young Dandelion,
With a sweet air,

"I have my eye on
Miss Daisy fair.

"Though we may tarry
Till past the cold,
Her I will marry
Ere I grow old.

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