TO MY SWEETHEART.
["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are still alive."—Her Letter.]
A Hothouse where some roses blew,
And, whilst the outer world was white,
The gentle roses softly grew
To fragrant visions of delight.
Some wretched florist owned them all,
And plucked them from their native bowers,
Then gaily showed them on his stall