NOVEMBER SNOW. HE snow upon the rose-flow'r sits, Sweet Robin Redbreast o'er it flits, The snow upon my life-bloom sits, EARL OF SOUTHESK. DAWN. LILY, with the sun of heaven's Prime splendour on thy breast! The darkness of our universe Smothered my soul in night; Thy glory shone; whereat the curse Raised over envy; freed from pain; THOMAS WOOLNER. THE TRYST. LEEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine, Waking, this mid and moonlight night, 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 ROBERT BROWNING, |