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224
THE ROSE OF EDEN-DALE.
They are not worth my keeping now—
She flung them on the ground—
Some strewed the earth, and some the wind
Went scattering idly round.
She then thought of those flowers no more,
But oft, in after-years,
When the young cheek was somewhat pale,
And the eyes dim with tears—
Then she recalled the faded wreath
Of other happier hours,
And felt love’s joy and hope had been
But only Hothouse Flowers.
L. E. L.
 |
LONDON:
J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.
