Puslapio vaizdai

How not? She loved, may be, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ;-
Perchance too candidly preferred

"Clarissa" to a gossip's word;—

And, for the rest, would seem to be

Or proud, or dull-this Dorothy.

Poor child with heart the down-lined nest

Of warmest instincts unconfest,

Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree
Unwinged from birth ;-poor Dorothy!

Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At "twice-told tales" of foxes killed ;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port-and Dorothy !

'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find

Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name

Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony

"Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!


These last I spoke. Then Florence said,
Below me,-"Dreams? Delusions, Fred!"
Next. with a pause,-she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile-
"But how disgusted, sir, you'll be

To hear I scrawled that 'Dorothy.""


"On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeronnette."-VICTOR HUGO.

HOUGH the voice of modern schools


Has demurred,

'Tis averred,

By the dreamy Asian creed

That the souls of men, released

From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,—

Or a bird.

I have watched you long, Avice,

Watched you so,

I have found your secret out;

And I know

That the restless ribboned things,

Where your slope of shoulder springs,

Are but undeveloped wings

That will grow.

When you enter in a room,

It is stirred

With the wayward, flashing flight
Of a bird;

And you speak—and bring with you
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,
And the wind-breath and the dew,
At a word.

When you called to me my name,
Then again

When I heard your single cry

In the lane,

All the sound was as the "sweet"
Which the birds to birds repeat

In their thank-song to the heat
After rain.

When you sang the Schwalbenlied, 'Twas absurd,—

But it seemed no human note

That I heard;

For your strain had all the trills,

All the little shakes and stills,

Of the over-song that rills

From a bird.

You have just their eager, quick "Airs de tête,"

All their flush and fever-heat
When elate;

Every bird-like nod and beck,
And a bird's own curve of neck

When she gives a little peck
To her mate.

When you left me, only now,

In that furred,

Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,

I was spurred

Just to catch you, O my Sweet,
By the bodice trim and neat,-
Just to feel your heart a-beat,
Like a bird.

Yet, alas! Love's light you deign But to wear

As the dew upon your plumes,

And you care

Not a whit for rest or hush;

But the leaves, the lyric gush,

And the wing-power, and the rush Of the air.

So I dare not woo you, Sweet,
For a day,

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