And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen
The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods,
But midst the bright things brought from other climes.
Child. What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks,