W. V«.

Each thorn upon the stem
Protects one rose-tipped, green-and-
golden gem ;
A bud, a thorn !—’tis thus the whole tree
through.
No, — where in tender shoots the branches
end
There is no spear!
But bud and bud and bud are crowded
here ;
’T is Nature’s cue
To lavish most what least she can defend.

Come to the woods and see
How in the warm wet sunny mist of morn
Green leaves, like thoughts in dreamful

hours, are born,

And in the mist birds pipe on every tree.
Come, and the mossy boulder on the hill
Shall teach what beauty springs of sitting

still.
The world’s work! Is the life not more
than meat?
And is this shrill immitigable strife,
This agony of existence, life?
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