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FLOWER SONGS.
From melancholy places where Perpetual fragrance wandereth. O'er grave and garden blow, Over warm life, and over lonely death.
And while the murmur rang, the sudden stirOf branches tost in a tumultuous gustOf showers and sweetness, darkling, swept the browAnd passed. And through the fluted melodyThere breathed that sound that silence listens to—The crickets chirping their unbroken strainOn th' hill-side, in the black warm summer night,Thrill of ethereal tone, as if were heardThe rustle of the great orb's wings through space,What time the brede of stars its lustre floatsIn self-poised circles, and the dusk is deep.
And then, as when across one's rarest dream,Just drawing off from the rich dregs of sleep,A cheery cry comes, and a broken tune,
