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"My book in turn avers
(No author's name is stated)
That sometimes those Philosophers
Are sadly mis-translated."
"But hear,-the next 's in stronger style:
The Cynic School asserted
That two red lips which part and smile
She smiled once more-" My book, I find,
Then I—" Why not? Ephesian law,
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
She blushed-this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches,
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,
And walk to Burnham-beeches."
(I find he too is talking)
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking."
She read no more. I leapt the sill: The sequel's scarce essential— Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential.
THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.
OOR Rose! I lift you from the street-
Than you should lie for random feet,
Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn!
I saw you last in Edith's hair.
A month-" a little month "-ago-
But let that pass. She gave you then
Behind the oleander
To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Cyril that, duly flattered, took,
With just the same Arcadian look
Then, having waltzed till every star
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,— She made my heart-strings quiver; And yet you shan't lie in the street, I'll drop you in the River.
LOVE IN WINTER.
ETWEEN 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.
"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.