Must he toil beneath the sun Who has nothing else to do?  What’s the use of such a one?  I know not—­pray do you?  Skies are not aflame for him; He converses not with elves; Primroses on river’s brim Can be nothing but themselves.

  Need he interfere with me,
  Who care only to be blest? 
  Go thy way, unhappy bee,
  Leave a butterfly at rest. 
  Butterflies with painted wings
  Are a part of Nature’s plan;
  Is not every bird that sings,
  Wiser than a busy man?

  Harry’s rich tenor delighteth my ears
  Oft as I hear it; ’tis ever the same;
  Brings to my eyes a soft soupcon of tears,
  Sends from my heart little thrills through my frame.

MY SONG.

        When the sea
        Speaks to me,
  Sure I may reply to it;
        When the skies
        Catch my eyes,
  I must smile a little bit. 
        When the trees
        Try to please
  With their buds and blossoms new,
        Shall I dare
        Not to care
  For a world so bright and true?

        Earth and sky,
        Tell me why
  Sorrow ever comes between? 
        Is it you,
        Heaven blue? 
  Is it you, my earth so green? 
        Is it there
        In the air
  That you neither of you touch? 
        Is the wind
        So unkind
  When I love its kiss so much?

        Let it be
        Earth or sea,
  Skies or breezes as they move,
        Earth is sweet
        ’Neath my feet,
  Heaven sweeter yet above;
        And the air
        Ev’rywhere
  Is the sweetest of the three;
        I will take,
        For their sake,
  Anything they bring to me!

  Men flocking round me, I find I’m admir’d;
  Praise is as sweet as a gratified whim;
  When a girl pleases she never feels tir’d—­
  Harry smiles at me, and I smile at him. 
  Through the open doors of a crystal dome
  Sweet is the scent of the tropical flowers,
  The splendid exiles who, banish’d from home,
  Are sparkling and shining to gladden ours. 
  Figures appearing ’mid blossom and fruit,
  In an airy, fairy, magical way;
  Their lips keep moving altho’ they are mute
  For ears too distant to hear what they say.

  From a lily bud can a voice be sent?—­
  ’Let us hope the Captain’s wild oats are sown;
  A pretty young wife should make him content’—­
  Only a word in a soft-spoken tone!

  Moving serenely ’mid beauty and song,
  Am not I born for the glittering throng? 
  Treading on roses with delicate feet,
  Is not a life a perpetual treat? 
  Can we be more than delighted and blest? 
  Pleasure is beautiful—­is it the best? 
  Highest and best that our nature can know? 
  Answer my heart—­and my heart answers No. 
  And my heart answers, ’more beautiful yet
  Life is for those who leave Home with regret,
  And greet it again as the sailor greets shore,
  Gaily returning to life gone before.’