TO A CERTAIN BOUQUET.

In chill December’s month, sweet flowers!

Your brilliant eyes first saw the light;

And you, instead of sun and showers,

Had watering-pots and anthracite.

II.

Go ye to Mary then, and while

Ye cease to mourn for summer skies,

Bask in the sunbeam of her smile,

And the sweet heaven of her eyes.

Horace.