POETRY.
IN A LONDON GARDEN.
I KNOW of gardens far away
Where thrushes in the laurels sing ; Where hyacinths stand stilt and gay, And daffodils in clusters swing.
But in this dim town-plot of mine, With sooty houses hemmed about, There are no flowers fair and fine To shake their shining petals out.
Yet here and there athwart the sun
Some bright leaf glitters like a gem; And there is one bud, only one,—
A tight bud on a slender stem.
A. tiny treasured mystery
Which by-and-by will be a rose ; And every day I watch to see
Its tender silken sheath unclose. On rainy days and windy days, It seems so frail and soft and small, I almost wonder as I gaze If it will ever blow at all.
But there will come at last, I think, A dawn when I shall wake to see An open blossom, sweet and pink, Where my one bud was wont to be.
FRANCES WYNNE.
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