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 "Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy! L'ENVOI. These last I spoke. Then Florence said, AVICE. "On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeronnette."-VICTOR HUGO. HOUGH the voice of modern schools THOUGH Has demurred, 'Tis averred, 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" 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 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, |