Within his furzy cover.

Here hums the wild-bee in the thyme,
Here glows the royal heather;
And youth comes back upon the breeze,
And youth's unclouded weather.

_F.T. Palgrave._

[Illustration: Here hums the wild bee in the thyme]

[Illustration]



VII.


AN APPEAL.

Dear, do not die!
Of cypresses and grassy graves sing I--
I hang with wreaths of song death's grief-grown cross,
And weep, to music, for Life's infinite loss,
And make the sweetest verse of bitterest woe,
--I know the way because I love you so;
But I have written griefs that I have known
In other's heart's blood, never in my own.
If _you_ died what more could be sung or said?
I could not sing of Death if you were dead.