Puslapio vaizdai

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." 1873.


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


HOUGH the voice of modern schools
Has demurred,

By the dreamy Asian creed

'Tis averred,
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,

Lest I lose you in a flash,
As I may;

Did I tell you tender things,

You would shake your sudden wings;—
You would start from him who sings,
And away.

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