She came with April blooms and showers; We count her little life by flowers. As buds the rose upon her cheek, We choose a flower for every week. A week of hyacinths, we say, And one of heart's-ease, ushered May; And then because two wishes met Upon the rose and violet-- I liked the Beauty, Kate, the Nun-- The violet and the rose count one. A week the apple marked with white; A week the lily scored in light; Red poppies closed May's happy moon, And tulips this blue week in June. Here end as yet the flowery links; To-day begins the week of pinks; But soon--so grave, and deep, and wise The meaning grows in Baby's eyes, So VERY deep for Baby's age-- We think to date a week with sage! The Messenger Rose If you have seen a richer glow, Pray, tell me where your roses blow! Look! coral-leaved! and--mark these spots Red staining red in crimson clots, Like a sweet lip bitten through In a pique. There, where that hue Is spilt in drops, some fairy thing Hath gashed the azure of its wing, Or thence, perhaps, this very morn, Plucked the splinters of a thorn. Rose! I make thy bliss my care! In my lady's dusky hair Thou shalt burn this coming night, With even a richer crimson light. To requite me thou shalt tell-- What I might not say as well-- How I love her; how, in brief, On a certain crimson leaf In my bosom, is a debt Writ in deeper crimson yet. If she wonder what it be-- But she'll guess it, I foresee-- Tell her that I date it, pray, From the first sweet night in May. On Pressing Some Flowers So, they are dead! Love! when they passed From thee to me, our fingers met; O withered darlings of the May! I feel those fairy fingers yet. And for the bliss ye brought me then, Your faded forms are precious things; No flowers so fair, no buds so sweet Shall bloom through all my future springs. And so, pale ones! with hands as soft As if I closed a baby's eyes, I'll lay you in some favorite book Made sacred by a poet's sighs. Your lips shall press the sweetest song, The sweetest, saddest song I know, As ye had perished, in your pride, Of some lone bard's melodious woe. Oh, Love! hath love no holier shrine! Oh, heart! could love but lend the power, I'd lay thy crimson pages bare, And every leaf should fold its flower. 1866--Addressed to the Old Year Art thou not glad to close Thy wearied eyes, O saddest child of Time, Eyes which have looked on every mortal crime, And swept the piteous round of mortal woes?