III.

A poem every flower is, And every leaf a line, And with delicious memories They fill this heart of mine: No living blossoms are so clear As these dead relics treasured here; One tells of Love, of friendship one, Love's quiet after-sunset time, When the all-dazzling light is gone, And, with the soul's low vesper-chime, O'er half its heaven doth out-flow A holy calm and steady glow. Some are gay feast-songs, some are dirges, In some a joy with sorrow merges; One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roar Of ocean's everlasting surges, Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, Or sliding backward from the shore To meet the landward waves and slowly plunge once more. O flowers of grace, I bless ye all By the dear faces ye recall!