A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle,
The hush of the forest, the ocean blue,
A lament for all that is false and vile,
A paean for all that is good and true.
Pompadour’s fan, or Louis’s queue,
Mournful or merry, right or wrong.
Subjects, you’ll find, are not so few,
But love is excluded from the song.
Oh! for a song of yourself you sue!
Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong.
Sing of your eyes and your smile and—Pooh!
Love is excluded from the song.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
How I Love Her.
Dear, I’ll tell you how I love you—
Not by singing sweetly of you—
Oh, I love you far too much,
For the daintiest rhyme’s light touch;
No, it needs no language signs,
It’s written here between the lines,
How I love you! You will see
If you look there, loving me.
Nassau Literary Monthly.
She fluttered gaily down the hill—
That merry, dimpled lass—
She hurried singing down the hill,
And then she loitered by the mill,
And saw the bubbles pass,
Made double in the glass
Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.
She heard a sparrow pertly cry,
She smelt the new-mown hay,
She felt the sunshine in the sky,
As lightly she went skipping by,
A-down the sunny way—
’Twas like a holiday,
The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.
And Cupid’s wings were on her feet,
As nimbly she ran down;
And Cupid’s wings were on her feet:
For pretty Polly went to meet
Her lover in the town.
She wore that lilac gown
That made him say—oh, nothing to repeat!
CHARLES W. SHOPE.
Under the Rose.
Last night the blush rose clustered,—
To-day the rough wind blows
In showers her broken petals;
Last night,—yet no one knows,—
I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart,
Under the rose!
Last night my fond hope blossomed,—
To-day December snows
Drift deep and cold above it;
To-day,—ah! no one knows,—
My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart,
Under the rose!
CATHERINE Y. GLEN.
[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]
A Bit of Human Nature.
’Tis only a pair of woman’s eyes,
So long-lashed, soft, and brown,
Half hiding the light that in them lies,
As dreamily looking down.
’Tis only the dainty curve of a lip,
Half full, half clear defined,
And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip,
And a figure half reclined.
’Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair,
With sunlight sifted through,
And a truant curl just here and there,
And a knot of ribbon blue.
’Tis only the wave of a feather fan,
That ruffles the creamy lace,
Loose gathered about the bosom fair,
By rhinestones held in place.