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She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays,

Foxglove and jasmine stars,

A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze

Of red in the celadon jars :

And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,
And roses of bountiful June—

Oh, who would think that summer spells
Could die so soon!

For a glad song came from the milking-shed,
On a wind of that summer south,

And the green was golden above her head,
And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth;

Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt—
And the wings of Time were fleet

As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt
Life was so sweet!

And the odorous limes were dim above
As we leant on a drooping bough;
And the darkling air was a breath of love,
And a witching thrush sang "Now!"
For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew
As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant-
That day was the sweetest day—and we knew
What the sweetness meant.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

NOVEMBER SNOW.

HE snow upon the rose-flow'r sits,
And whitens all the spray;

Sweet Robin Redbreast o'er it flits,
And shakes the snow away.

The snow upon my life-bloom sits,
And sheds a dreary blight:

Thy spirit o'er my spirit flits,
And crimson comes for white.

EARL OF SOUTHESK.

DAWN.

LILY, with the sun of heaven's

Prime splendour on thy breast!
My scattered passions toward thee run,
Poising to awful rest.

The darkness of our universe

Smothered my soul in night;

Thy glory shone; whereat the curse
Passed molten into light.

Raised over envy; freed from pain;
Beyond the storms of chance :
Blessed king of my own world I reign,
Controlling circumstance.

THOMAS WOOLNER.

THE TRYST.

LEEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine,
In some ambrosial lover's shrine.
My lips against thy lips were pressed,
And all our passion was confessed;
So near and dear my darling seemed,
I knew not that I only dreamed.

Waking, this mid and moonlight night,
I clasp thee close by lover's right.
Thou fearest not my warm embrace,
And yet, so like the dream thy face
And kisses, I but half partake
The joy, and know not if I wake.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

IN A GONDOLA.

SHE SINGS.

I.

HE moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made believe

You were not sure, this eve,

How my face, your flower, had pursed

Its petals up; so, here and there

You brush it, till I grow aware

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

II.

The bee's kiss, now!

Kiss me as if you entered gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is rendered up,
And passively its shattered cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.

ROBERT BROWNING.

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