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A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.
IV.
Bright-featured, as the July sun
Her little face, still played in,
And splendours, with her birth begun,
Had had no time for fading.
V.
So, Lily, from those July hours,
No wonder we should call her;
She looked such kinship to the flowers . . .
Was but a little taller.
VI.
A Tuscan Lily,—only white . . .
As Dante, in abhorrence
Of red corruption, wished aright
The lilies of his Florence.
VII.
We could not wish her whiter, . . Her
Who perfumed with pure blossom
The house!—a lovely thing to wear
Upon a mother's bosom!
VIII.
This July creature thought perhaps
Our speech not worth assuming:
She sate upon her parents' laps,
And mimicked the gnat's humming;
