LOVE IN WINTER

LOVE IN WINTER

BETWEEN the berried holly-bush

The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush: "Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,— Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?"

The Throstle pecked the berries still.
"No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,-
'Tchuck, 'tis a merry pairing-time!"

"What would you?" twittered in the Wren;
"These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of Spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
"Twould save this inconsistency."

"Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, “nay; I like their unreflective way. 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?'"

I

POT-POURRI

"Si jeunesse savait ? —”

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 ";

POT-POURRI

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 scandalised
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.

DOROTHY

A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME

UPON A PANE

HE then must once have looked, as I

SHE

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,

DOROTHY

Whose crude perception could but see
"Ma'am Fine-airs" in "Miss Dorothy."

How not? She loved, maybe, 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!