110
VOICE OF FLOWERS.
CHANGES DURING SICKNESS.
I bow'd me down amid the race of life,
And let the fever-spirit have its will.
With wrench and screw the tissued nerves it tried,
And held from sleep the strained and burning eye,
So that the soft-voic'd watcher's toil was vain.
Two weeks passed by, and then His healing love,
Who knows the weakness of this mortal frame
Which He hath fashioned, bade me take my place
Again among the living.
Strange and new
Seemed every wonted object. All around
Change had been busy. Boldly up had sprung,
Even to the eaves, the rich Convolvolus,
So long with patience water'd, even and morn,
Its clustering floral bells, profoundly blue,
