FROST-BITTEN.

    We were driving home from the “Patriarchs’”—­
      Molly Lefevre and I, you know;
    The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;
      Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.

    Her white arms nestled amid her furs;
      Her hands half-held, with languid grace,
    Her fading roses; fair to see
      Was the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.

    I watched her, saying never a word,
      For I would not waken those dreaming eyes. 
    The breath of the roses filled the air,
      And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.

    At last I said to her, bending near,
      “Ah, Molly Lefevre, how sweet ’twould be,
    To ride on dreaming, all our lives,
      Alone with the roses—­you and me.”

    Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,
      And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,
    Her answer came.  It was—­“Yes, perhaps—­
    But who would settle our carriage bill?”

    The dying roses breathed their last,
      Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,
    Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped. 
      It has never been taken up again.

    A SONG.

    Spring-time is coming again, my dear;
      Sunshine and violets blue, you know;
    Crocuses lifting their sleepy heads
      Out of their sheets of snow. 
    And I know a blossom sweeter by far
    That violets blue, or crocuses are,
      And bright as the sunbeam’s glow. 
    But how can I dare to look in her eyes,
      Colored with heaven’s own hue? 
    That wouldn’t do at all, my dear,
      It really wouldn’t do.

    Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;
      In its golden depths the fairies play,
    Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,
      Luring my heart away. 
    And her merry lips are the ripest red
    That ever addled a poor man’s head,
      Or led his wits astray. 
    What wouldn’t I give to taste the sweets
      Of those rose-leaves wet with dew! 
    But that wouldn’t do at all, my dear,
      It really wouldn’t do.

    Her voice is gentle, and clear and pure;
      It rings like the chime of a silver bell,
    And the thought it wakes in my foolish head,
      I’m really afraid to tell. 
    Her little feet kiss the ground below,
    And her hand is white as the whitest snow
      That e’er from heaven fell. 
    But I wouldn’t dare to take that hand,
      Reward for my love to sue;
    That wouldn’t do at all, my dear,
      It really wouldn’t do.

    OLD PHOTOGRAPHS.

    Old lady, put your glasses on,
      With polished lenses, mounting golden,
    And once again look slowly through
      The album olden.

    How the old portraits take you back
      To friends who once would ’round you gather—­
    All scattered now, like frosted leaves
      In blustering weather.