Page:Twilight Hours (1868).djvu/288

 ITFUL, tender, sweet, With the dumb, bound woe, With the stems that stoop, and the leaves that droop- Why should they suffer so ? Bitterness hasteth, fleet, 'Tis the south wind waits ; While the fragrance dies, and the dead bud lies Close at our garden gates. Oh, for a little space Where a child might tread, Where a flower might grow into beauty, so 'Crowning the storm-bent head.