Page:Poetical works of Mathilde Blind.djvu/474

 448 Poor helpless blossom orphaned of the sun,

How could it thus brave winter's rude estate?

Oh love, more helpless love, why bloom so late,

Now that the flower-time of the year is done?

Since thy dear course must end when scarce begun,

Nipped by the cold touch of relentless fate.

HAUNTED STREETS.