And lips that speak of the days of old.
Wide is your flight,
O spirits of Night,
By strath, and stream, and grove,
But most in the gloom
Of the Poet's room
Ye choose, fair ones, to rove.




Richard Rowe.



Superstites Rosae


The grass is green upon her grave,
The west wind whispers low;
"The corn is changed, come forth, come forth,
Ere all the blossoms go!"

In vain. Her laughing eyes are sealed,
And cold her sunny brow;
Last year she smiled upon the flowers --
They smile above her now!