Iv

And the morning-glory, in pride of birth, From the jessamine turned in scorn: “I marvel,” she said, “if thy mother earth Was not sick when thou wast born! Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead-- Wan thing, dost weary our eye!” And she weakly laughed and stiffened her head And turned to her star in the sky. And the jessamine sighed, as she bent her head, “I am sick of myself, and I would I were dead!”