—CHARLES WYNDHAM.
Thine old-world eyes—each one a violet—
Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth—
Sets me a-dreaming. Have our eyes not met
In childhood—in a garden of the South?
—HENRY A. BEERS.
May his soft foot, where it treads,
Gardens thence produce, and meads,
And those meddowes full be set
With the rose and violet.