White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam, Her eyes are azure, too. She puts her hair behind her ears For me, I think of nothing less: I think how those pure pearls become her -And which is sweetest, winter chess Or garden strolls in summer. O linger, frost, upon the pane! O faint blue flame, still softly rise! O, dear one, thus with me remain, That I may watch thine eyes! MULTUM IN PARVO. A LITTLE shadow makes the sunrise sad, Ay, and the rose is but a little flower TO F. C. 20th FEBRUARY, 1875. FAST falls the snow, O lady mine, We'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine, So stir the fire and pour the wine, 'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY. Under the elm a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat THIS relative of mine, Was she seventy-and-nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen Beneath a summer tree, Her maiden reverie Has a charm; Her ringlets are in taste; What an arm! - what a waist For an arm! With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Falbala, Were Romney's limning true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa! |