Morning-glories, tents of purple
Stretched on bars of creamy white,
Folding up their satin curtains
Inward through the dewy night.
Marigold, with coat of velvet
Streaked with gold and yellow lace,
With its love for summer sunlight
Written on its honest face.
Dainty pink, with feathered petals
Tinted, curled, and deeply frayed,
With its calyx heart, half broken,
On its leaves uplifted laid.
Can t you see them in the garden,
Where dear grandma takes her nap?
See cherry blooms shake softly over
Silver hair and snowy cap?
Will the modern florist's triumph
Look so fair, or smell so sweet,
As those dear old-fashioned posies
Blooming round our grandame's feet?
ONE SUMMER.
THE tale of the summer is ended,
The stage-coach has passed the old mill,
The roll of the wheels echoes softly,
Yet I by the gate linger still.
