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To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Cyril that, duly flattered, took,
Then, having waltzed till every star
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,-
LOVE IN WINTER.
ETWEEN the berried holly-bush The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush: "Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,― Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?"
The Throstle pecked the berries still.
"What would you?" twittered in the Wren; "These are the reckless ways of men. I watched them bill and coo as though They thought the sign of Spring was snow; If men but timed their loves as we, 'Twould save this inconsistency."
"Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, "nay; I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow :— 'Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May, When love can warm a winter's day?""
"Si jeunesse savait ?—"
PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : (An alien touch but dust perceives, Nought else supposes ;)
For me those fragrant ruins raise
"If youth but knew!" Ah, "if,” in truth— I can recall with what gay youth,
To what light chorus,
Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp To catch the dim Arthurian camp
In misty distance;
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
What need had we for thoughts or cares ! The hot sun parched the old parterres And "flowerful closes";
We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees,— Then plucked these roses.
Louise was one-
Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
I loved them all. Bell first and best ;
Or madcap masking;
And Ruth, I thought,-why, failing these, When my High-Mightiness should please, She'd come for asking.