18
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Through that cypress avenue,
Such a garden meets the view,
Filled with flowers—flowers that seem
Lighted up by the sunbeam;
Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves
Green as Hope before it grieves
O’er the false and broken-hearted,
All with which its youth has parted,
Never to return again,
Save in memories of pain!
There is a white rose in yon bower,
But holds it a yet fairer flower:
And music from that cage is breathing,
Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing,
