(On being asked for some verses.)
I love the silver dawn of night
That melts the dark away;
The ecstacy of pallid light
That bathes the ended day;
When leaf by leaf the slumbrous trees
Begin to talk anew;
And that sweet almoner, the breeze,
Fills every cup with dew;
When on the fevered brow of toil
Eve lays a soothing palm,
And whispers softly to the soul:
“This hour was made for calm.”
1876.
Notre Dame des Fleurs.
To F. S. W.
Rosy, and fair, and fragrant,
Your vassals, the flowers, come,
Bearing a welcome to us
From the heart of your sunlit home;
Delicate garlands, wreathing
With brightness these dreary hours;
Red lips and white lips, breathing
Of you, our Lady of Flowers!