To the White Julienne

Mary Hannay Foott

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AGAIN above thy fragile flowers
I bend, to bring their perfume nigh;
For only in the evening hours
Thy odors pass thy blossoms by;
But when the ministering day
Deserts thee with the warmth and light
That lulled thee,—waking thou wilt pay
For these, in sweetness, to the night.
O flower of Marie Antoinette!—
Ungrateful to the lavish day,—
Refusing it thy fragrance,—yet
Relenting in such generous way,—
Perchance, like thee, while life was bright
Her soul no holy savour shed,—
Yet scattered incense when grief’s night
Wept dews of blood upon her head!

I bend, to bring thy perfume near,
Again,—I cannot leave the spot;
Damp walls and prison gloom are here!
The beauties of the garden-plot
Are gone,—save thee, White Julienne,
Fond-handled by the fated queen!—
I hear her sigh above thee,—then
The sentry’s tread behind the screen!

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