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First Line: Hark to a call in the late september night
Last Line: Was there none to answer when your sweet souls cried?
Subject(s): Death; Flowers; Dead, The

HARK to a call in the late September night,
From the little garden-close crying -- crying!
As the cold stars watch from their safe, untroubled height,
Faintly breathes the scented prayer -- "Help! We are dying!"

Who would invade the sisterhood of flowers,
In their cloistered innocence fresh and gently gay?
What so cruel foe would dare profane the hours,
To fright the tender sleeping buds and steal their peace away?

Hark! The wistful cry again! Wafted o'er the grasses
Comes the trembling fragrance, a sigh from hearts of gold.
Something sly and sinister in the shadow passes;
Shivering draw the covers close, the blood runs cold!

Lo, in the morning, the bleak and hoary morning,
Desolate the garden where the white foe crept;
Wall or moat no bar to him, come without a warning,
Capturing the pretty ones helpless where they slept.

Cruel was the touch of him, blighting was his breath,
Beauty shrank before him, but found no place to hide.
Fragile, piteous martyrs coldly done to death,
Was there none to answer when your sweet souls cried?

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