For stately trees in rich array,
  For sunlight all the happy day,
    For blossoms radiant and rare,
      For skies when daylight closes,
  For joyous, clear, outpouring song
  From birds that all the green wood throng,
    For all things young, and bright, and fair,
      We praise thee, Month of Roses!

  For blue, blue skies of summer calm,
  For fragrant odors breathing balm,
    For quiet, cooling shades where oft
      The weary head reposes,
  For brooklets babbling thro’ the fields
  Where Earth her choicest treasures yields,
    For all things tender, sweet and soft,
      We love thee, Month of Roses!

ELAINE.

SPRING SONG.

  Oh, the little streams are running,
        Running, running!—­
  Oh, the little streams are running
        O’er the lea;
  And the green soft grass is springing,
        Springing, springing!—­
  And the green soft grass is springing,
        Fair to see.

  In the woods the breezes whisper,
        Whisper, whisper!—­
  In the woods the breezes whisper
        To the flowers;
  And the robins sing their welcome,
        Welcome, welcome!—­
  And the robins sing their welcome,—­
        Happy hours!

  Over all the sun is shining,
        Shining, shining!—­
  Over all the sun is shining,
        Clear and bright,—­
  Flooding bare and waiting meadows,
        Meadows, meadows!—­
  Flooding bare and waiting meadows
        With his light.

Sky Farm, March, ’76.  ELAINE.

[Grown people often write in sympathy with children, but here is a little poem by a child written in sympathy with grown folks:]

ASHES OF ROSES.

  Soft on the sunset sky
    Bright daylight closes,
  Leaving, when light doth die,
  Pale hues that mingling lie—­
    Ashes of roses.

  When love’s warm sun is set,
    Love’s brightness closes;
  Eyes with hot tears are wet,
  In hearts there linger yet
    Ashes of roses.

ELAINE.

SUMMER IS COMING.

  “Summer is coming!” the soft breezes whisper;
    “Summer is coming!” the glad birdies sing. 
  Summer is coming—­I hear her quick footsteps;
    Take your last look at the beautiful Spring.

  Lightly she steps from her throne in the woodlands: 
    “Summer is coming, and I cannot stay;
  Two of my children have crept from my bosom: 
    April has left me but lingering May.

  “What tho’ bright Summer is crowned with roses. 
    Deep in the forest Arbutus doth hide;
  I am the herald of all the rejoicing;
    Why must June always disown me?” she cried.

  Down in the meadow she stoops to the daisies,
    Plucks the first bloom from the apple-tree’s bough: 
  “Autumn will rob me of all the sweet apples;
    I will take one from her store of them now.”