CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

1830-1895.

SONG. W hen I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

SONG. O roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time. O violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time.

SONG. T wo doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower:— O happy they who look on them. Who look upon them hand in hand Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand And never give a thought to night.

THREE SEASONS. “A cup for hope!” she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth’s richer red. “A cup for love!” how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow. “A cup for memory!” Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea. Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.