Volume 103 — TO MY SWEETHEART.

A Hothouse where some roses blew, And, whilst the outer world was white, The gentle roses softly grew To fragrant visions of delight. Some wretched florist owned them all, And plucked them from their native bowers, Then gaily showed them on his stall To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers." Some went beside a bed of pain Where influenza claimed its due; They drooped and never smiled again, The epidemic had them too. A gay young gallant bought some buds, And jauntily went out to dine With other reckless sporting bloods, Who talked of women, drank of wine; But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank, And told tales not too sanctified. Abashed the timid blossoms shrank, Changed colour, faded, and then died. Yet roses, too, I gave to you, I saw you place them near your heart, You wore them all the evening through, You wore them when we came to part. But now you write to me, my dear, And marvel that they are not dead, Their beauty does not disappear, Their fragrant perfume has not fled. The reason's plain. Somehow aright The flowers know if we ignore them. The roses live for sheer delight At knowing, Sweetheart, that you wore them.