The seal and guerdon of wealth untold

Nature lies disheveled, pale, With her feverish lips apart,— Day by day the pulses fail, Nearer to her bounding heart; Yet that slackened grasp doth hold Store of pure and genuine gold;

Skirting the rocks at the forest edge With a running flame from ledge to ledge, Or swaying deeper in shadowy glooms, A smoldering fire in her dusky blooms; Bronzed and molded by wind and sun, Maddening, gladdening every one

Thy subtle charm is strangely given, My fancy will not let thee be, , Then poise not thus 'twixt earth and heaven, O white anemone!

The starry, fragile windflower, Poised above in airy grace, Virgin white, suffused with blushes, Shyly droops her lovely face.

Pure and perfect, sweet arbutus Twines her rosy-tinted wreath.

Death in the wood,— In the death-pale lips apart; Death in a whiteness that curdled the blood, Now black to the very heart: The wonder by her was formed Who stands supreme in power;