The buds and flowers that I may never see;
And, as ye see depart those rosy hours,
Think, think of me.
H. L. S.
HERE is a prose sketch on the same ever-fertile subject, the writer modestly styling her collection, "Shells from the Shore of Thought:"—
SPRING.—Would that thoughts on Spring would spring up in my mind radiant as the gentle flowers which the clarion voice of Spring awakens from their wintry slumber! Would that I could array these thoughts in eloquence as glorious as the vesture which she gives the lovely flowers!
She casts around them a mantle of vivid green, lifts their modest heads beneath a pearly veil of mist, and crowns them with a diadem of dew-drops, which the morning sunlight transmutes to amethysts and rubies, emeralds and diamonds.
But, sad to say, my thoughts are less like the flowers, and more like the seed of that tribe (thistle, &c.) which float through the air on a silken sail in quest of a place of repose. Some find them bright homes in lands far away, like the thoughts of the gifted, which become household words; but others, the silk of whose sail is not fine, float adrift on the waves, to be lost, like my thoughts, in the ocean of years.