Spite of your own remorse or Flora's grief,
Till ye have come unto its heart's pale hue;
The last, last leaf, which is the queen,--the chief
Of beautiful dim blooms: ye shall not rue,
At sight of that sweet leaf the mischief which ye do."

One does not know when to leave off gathering buds in the "Garden of
Florence." Even after Shakespeare, and after Keats, this passage on wild
flowers has its own charm:

"We gathered wood flowers,--some blue as the vein
O'er Hero's eyelid stealing, and some as white,
In the clustering grass, as rich Europa's hand
Nested amid the curls on Jupiter's forehead,
What time he snatched her through the startled waves;--
Some poppies, too, such as in Enna's meadows
Forsook their own green homes and parent stalks,
To kiss the fingers of Proserpina:
And some were small as fairies' eyes, and bright
As lovers' tears!"

I wish I had room for three or four sonnets, the Robin Hood sonnets to
Keats, and another on a picture of a lady. Excuse the length of this
letter, and read this:

"Sorrow hath made thine eyes more dark and keen,
And set a whiter hue upon thy cheeks,--
And round thy pressed lips drawn anguish-streaks,
And made thy forehead fearfully serene.
Even in thy steady hair her work is seen,