plar
Leaves" is exceedingly pretty and gracefully expressed. It needs
but a few alterations to make it all that it should be. "Spring" is
striking in point of thought, but the versification should flow
more smoothly, and the diction here and there needs correction.

"Thoughts Suggested by a Wakeful Night" are so good that I should
like to see them made as perfect as possible, and as blank verse
needs more finish than rhyme this task will need some pains. I hope
you will not be discouraged at my criticism. If you think of
sending any of these poems to some magazine "The Poplar Leaves"
would best lead the way. I am sorry I cannot help you in this,
having no connection with that kind of periodical literature nor
any acquaintance with its conductors. You will see that I have made
no notes on "Jessie." There are many pleasing lines in it, but it
wants unity, the introductory part having no necessary connection
with the catastrophe, and the latter being only a distressing
accident....

The poems, which with returning health and strength were laid aside, are
very defective in form, but the thoughts and feelings that were a solace
to the blind lady cannot fail to interest the reader. These poems also
show what the Chichester garden was to her, and what intellectual
interests and resources she had when she was incapable of the active
work of her Association.

THE POPLAR LEAVES.

The poplar leaves are whispering low
In the setting summer beams;
As they catch the lovely farewell glow
That lights the hills and streams.

What tell they in those murmurs low,
Under the rising moon?
As they wave so gracefully to and fro,
I would ask of them a boon.

Have you any word for me,
A word I fain would hear?
'Twas dropped perchance beneath your tree
Too faint for human ear.

Ye whisper so very low yourselves,
That as they lightly pass,
Ye needs must hear e'en fairy elves
At revels in the grass.

Then tell me, tell me, if she came
Beneath the setting sun,
And breathed a song, a sigh, a name
Or sweet word ever a one.

Then whisper it again to me,
Ye have not let it go,
It thrilled the whole height of your tree
Through every leaf I trow.

Yet still they whispered on and on,
But never a word for me;