(SHE READS.)

    Just me, and my pipe, and the fire-light,
      Whose mystical circles of red
    Protect me alone with the shadows;
      The smoke-wreaths engarland my head;
    And the strains of a waltz, half forgotten,
      The favorite waltz of the year,
    Played softly by fairy musicians,
      Chime sweetly and low on my ear.

    The smoke-cloud floats thickly around me,
      All perfumed and white, till it seems
    A bride-veil magicians have woven
      To honor the bride of my dreams. 
    Float on, dreamy waltz, through my fancies,
      My thoughts in your harmony twine! 
    Draw near, phantom face, in your beauty,
      Look deep, phantom eyes, into mine.

    Sweet lips—­crimson buds half unfolded—­
      Give breath to the exquisite voice,
    That, waking the strands of my being
      To melody, bids me rejoice. 
    Dream, soul, till the world’s dream is ended! 
      Dream, heart, of your beautiful past! 
    For dreaming is better than weeping,
      And all things but dreams at the last.

    Change rules in the world of the waking—­
      Its laughter aye ends in a sigh;
    Dreams only are changeless—­immortal: 
      A love-dream alone cannot die. 
    Toil, fools!  Sow your hopes in the furrows,
      Rich harvest of failure you’ll reap;
    Life’s riddle is read the most truly
      By men who but talk in their sleep.

    (HE REMONSTRATES.)

    There, stop!  That’ll do—­yes, I own it—­
      But, dear, I was young then, you know. 
    I wrote that before we were married;
      Let’s see—­why, it’s ten years ago! 
    You remember that night, at Drake’s party,
      When you flirted with Dick all the time? 
    I left in a state quite pathetic,
      And went home to scribble that rhyme.

    What a boy I was then with my dreaming,
      And reading the riddle of life! 
    You gave a good guess at its meaning
      The night you said “Yes,” little wife. 
    One kiss for old times’ sake, my Dolly—­
      That didn’t seem much like a dream. 
    Holloa! something’s wrong with the children! 
      Those young ones do nothing but scream.

    AN AFTERTHOUGHT.

    Vine leaves rustled, moonbeams shone,
      Summer breezes softly sighed;
    You and I were all alone
      In a kingdom fair and wide
      You, a Queen, in all your pride,
      I, a vassal, by your side.

    Fairy voices in the leaves
      Ceaselessly were whispering: 
    “’Tis the time to garner sheaves—­
      Let your heart its longing sing;
      Place upon her hand a ring;
      Then our Queen shall know her King.”

    E’en the moonbeams seemed to learn
      Speech when they had kissed your face,
    Passing fair—­my lips did yearn
      To be moonbeams for a space—­
      “Lo, ’tis fitting time and place! 
      Speak, and courage will find grace.”