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Wilt take my flowers ? From their faded faces
No thrill of pleasure will your spirit glean? Not beautiful ?-if born in sunnier places,
They might have been.
Oh, take my flowers ! tokens from the giver
Of all her being may e'er prove to you,
To bloom anew!
Her life’s aroma fainting, failing, dying,
Will wander, breathing at your far-off shrine Love's warmer odor, from your being rising
A thing divine !
CHICAGO, May, 1858.
A FEW friends, with whose wishes it is pleasant and easy to comply, have requested the publication of these hastily written Letters in book form. Although written on the run, they have not been “carefully revised and corrected by the author;" but, with the exception, here and there, of the substitution of a few “stars” in place of something better or worse, they re-appear “with all their imperfections on their heads." They will doubtless receive unjust censure and undue praise; but I am too well accustomed to both, I trust, to be permanently injured by either. If I have committed errors in fact, in taste, or in sentiment, or written a word to wound a sensitive heart, I am sorry for it; and if the scattered leaves have given pleasure to any reader, it may be hoped that they will not be less welcome when gathered into—may
say, a bouquet ? [a book-eh?]