A CITY FLOWER

"Il y a des fleurs animées."

-POLITE COLLOQUIALISM

To and fro in the City I go,

Tired of the ceaseless ebb and flow,
Sick of the crowded mart;
Tired of the din and rattle of wheels,
Sick of the dust as one who feels

The dust is over his heart.

And again and again, as the sunlight wanes,
I think of the lights in the leafy lanes,
With the bits of blue between ;

And when about Rimmel's the perfumes play,
I smell no vapours of "Ess Bouquet,"
But violets hid in the green;

And I love how I love-the plants that fill
The pots on my dust-dry window-sill,—
A sensitive sickly crop,―

But a flower that charms me more, I think,
Than cowslip, or crocus, or rose, or pink,
Blooms in a milliner's shop.

Hazel eyes that wickedly peep,
Flash, abash, and suddenly sleep
Under the lids drawn in;

Ripple of hair that rioteth out,
Mouth with a half-born smile and a pout,
And a baby breadth of chin;

Hands that light as the lighting bird,

On the bloom-bent bough, and the bough is stirred
With a delicate ecstasy;

Fingers tipped with a roseate flush,
Flicking and flirting a feathery brush
Over the papery bonnetry ;-

Till the gauzy rose begins to glow,
And the gauzy hyacinths break and blow,
And the dusty grape grows red;
And the flaunting grasses seem to say,
"Do we look like ornaments-tell us, we pray-
Fit for a lady's head?"

And the butterfly wakes to a wiry life,
Like an elderly gentleman taking a wife,
Knowing he must be gay,

And all the bonnets nid-noddle about,
Like chattering chaperons set at a rout,
Quarrelling over their play.

How can I otherwise choose than look
At the beautiful face like a beautiful book,
And learn a tiny part?

So I feel somehow that every day
Some flake of the dust is brushed away
That had settled over my heart.