—FRANCES L. MACE.
Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,
From thee the violet steals its breath in May.
—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet’s breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;