English Stornelli

THE slow green wave comes curling from the bay
And leaps in spray along the sunny marge,
And steals a little more and more away,
And drowns the dulse, and lifts the stranded barge.
Leave me, strong tide, my smooth and yellow shore ;
But the clear waters deepen more and more :

Leave me my pathway of the sands, strong tide ;
Yet are the waves more fair than all they hide.
THE FLOWERS TO COME.
THE drift is in the hollow of the hill,
Yet primrose leaves uncurl beneath the hedge;
Frosts pierce the dawn, and the north wind blows chill,
Yet snowdrop spikelets rim the garden edge.
Dear plants that will make bud in coming spring,
Ye were not for one only blossoming:

More than one blossoming for all fair flowers;
And God keeps mine till spring is somewhere ours.