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MY STAR.

3LL that I know

Of a certain star

Is, it can throw

(Like the angled spar)

- Now a dart of red,

Now a dart of blue;

Till my friends have said

They would fain see, too,

My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: They must solace themselves with, the Saturn

above it.

What matter to me if their star is a world?

Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

ROBERT BROWNING.

WOULD thou might'st not vex me with thine

eyes,

Thou fair Ideal Beauty, nor would'st shame
All lower thoughts and visions as they rise,
As in mid-noon a flame.

For now thy presence leaves no prospect fair,
Nor joy in act, nor charm in any maid,
Nor end to be desired, for which men dare,
Thou making me afraid.

Because life seems through thee a thing too great

To spend on these, which else might grow to thee; So that fast bound, I idly hesitate :

I prithee set me free;

Or, hold me, if thou wilt, but come not near,

Let me pursue thee still in ghostly grace; Far off let me pursue thee, for I fear

To faint before thy face.

LEWIS MORRIS.

THE UNREALIZED IDEAL.

Y only love is always near,—
In country or in town

I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.

She foots it ever fair and young,
Her locks are tied in haste,

And one is o'er her shoulder flung,

And hangs below her waist.

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She ran before me in the meads;

And down this world-worn track

She leads me on; but while she leads. She never gazes back.

And yet her voice is in my dreams,
To witch me more and more ;
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.

Lightly I sped when hope was high,
And youth beguiled the chase,-
I follow, follow still; but I

Shall never see her face.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

ARM whispering through the slender olive

leaves

Came to me a gentle sound,

Whispering of a secret found

In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves:

Said it was sleeping for me in the morn,

Called it gladness, called it joy,

Drew me on "Come hither, boy

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To where the blue wings rested on the corn.

I thought the gentle sound had whispered true-
Thought the little heaven mine,

Leaned to clutch the thing divine,

And saw the blue wings melt within the blue.

GEORGE ELIOT.

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