TUBEROSES.
By LAURA GARLAND CARR.
In misty greenhouse aisles or garden walks,
In crowded halls or in the lonely room,
Where fair tuberoses, from their slender stalks,
Lade all the air with heavy, rich perfume,
My heart grows sick; my spirits sink like lead,—
The scene before me slips and fades away:
A small, still room uprising in its stead,
With softened light, and grief's dread, dark array.
Shrined in its midst, with folded hands, at rest,
Life's work all over ere 'twas well begun,
Lies a fair girl in snowy garments dressed,
And all the place with bud and bloom o'errun;
Pinks, roses, lilies, blend in odorous death,
But over all the tuberose sends its wealth,
Seeming to hold the lost one by its breath
While creeping o'er our living hearts in stealth.
O subtle blossoms, you are death's own flowers!
You have no part with love or festal hours.
[pg 354]