THE TRYST.

LEEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine,
In some ambrosial lover's shrine.
My lips against thy lips were pressed,
And all our passion was confessed;
So near and dear my darling seemed,
I knew not that I only dreamed.

Waking, this mid and moonlight night,
I clasp thee close by lover's right.
Thou fearest not my warm embrace,
And yet, so like the dream thy face
And kisses, I but half partake

The joy, and know not if I wake.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

IN A GONDOLA.

SHE SINGS.

I.

HE moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made believe

You were not sure, this eve,

How my face, your flower, had pursed

Its petals up; so, here and there

You brush it, till I grow aware

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

II.

The bee's kiss, now!

Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up,
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE DIAL.

NLY when Summer's sun is high,

And the blue is broad in the summer sky,

The shadows on the dial face

Tell of day's race.

Only when so we sit together,

And loving eyes make pleasant weather,

Live I-my soul in sunny blisses

Counts life by kisses.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

H

W

A KISS.

I.

WEET mouth! Oh let me take

One draught from that delicious cup!
The hot Sahara-thirst to slake

- That burns me up!

II.

Sweet breath! all flowers that are,

Within that darling frame must bloom;

My heart revives so at the rare

Divine perfume!

III.

Nay, 'tis a dear deceit,

A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine;
Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,

That fragrance fine!

IV.

I drank the drink betrayed me

Into a madder, fiercer fever;

The scent of those love-blossoms made me
More faint than ever.

V.

Yet though quick death it were That rich heart-vintage I must drain, And quaff that hidden garden's air, Again-again!

ALFRED DOMETT.