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How not? She loved, may be, perfume,
"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
Not less I dream her mute desire
'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
"Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
These last I spoke. Then Florence said,
To hear I scrawled that 'Dorothy.""
"On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeronnette."-VICTOR HUGO.
HOUGH the voice of modern schools
By the dreamy Asian creed
That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
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
And you speak—and bring with you
When you called to me my name,
When I heard your single cry
In the lane,
All the sound was as the "sweet"
In their thank-song to the heat
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
Every bird-like nod and beck,
When she gives a little peck
When you left me, only now,
In that furred,
Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,
I was spurred
Just to catch you, O my Sweet,
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,