Puslapio vaizdai

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?'"


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PLUNGE my hand among the leaves:
(An alien touch but dust perceives,
Nought else supposes ;)

For me those fragrant ruins raise

Clear memory of the vanished days

When they were roses.

"If youth but knew!" Ah, "if,” in truth— I can recall with what gay youth,

To what light chorus,

Unsobered yet by time or change,

We roamed the many-gabled Grange,

All life before us;

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,

Or rapped at walls for sliding doors

Of feigned existence.

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-light, glib Louise,
So freshly freed from school decrees
You scarce could stop her;
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalized
Our dear "Miss Proper: "—

Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
Who wept-like Chaucer's Prioress,
When Dash was smitten;

Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when
You teased her kitten.

I loved them all. Bell first and best;
Louise the next-for days of jest

Or madcap masking;

And Ruth, I thought,-why, failing these, When my High-Mightiness should please, She'd come for asking.

Louise was grave when last we met;
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set;

And Ruth, Heaven bless her,

Ruth that I wooed,—and wooed in vain, Has gone where neither grief nor pain Can now distress her.



HE then must once have looked, as I
Look now, across the level rye,

Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river-she
Whose old-world name was "Dorothy."

The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,—
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.

What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ;-
Soft,-pensive,-far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
Whose crude perception could but see
"Ma'am Fine-airs" in "Miss Dorothy."


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