adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas!
(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)
She wears my heart--but let that pass;
It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,--
To be despised when you are faded;
Yet she's an angel--too divine
To be by you or me upbraided.

Her Reverie.

A lady combed her silken hair.
None but a looking-glass would dare
To gaze on such a scene.
The blushes thronged her dimpled cheek;
They coursed upon her shoulders, eke,
And the white neck between.

And she was thinking then, I trow,
Of one who, in a whispered vow
Beneath the budding elm,
Had told her they would sail their barque
On lakes where pale stars pierced the dark,
With Cupid at the helm.

Anon, a faint smile pursed her lips
And shook her dainty finger-tips,
As breezes shake the boughs;
And then a quick, impetuous frown
Came gathering from her ringlets down,
And perched upon her brows.

Ah, she was thinking then, I ween,
Of me, poor clumsy dunce, who e'en
Had torn her silken dress.
I waltzed too near her at the ball;
Her beauty dazed me--that was all;
I felt a dizziness.

To Beauty.

"Oh, Mistress Beauty," said my sigh,
"I'd laugh to scorn all other blisses,
If you and I might live and die
Together on such fare as kisses.

"Your kirtle would not be of silk,
The band around it but torn leather.
I think our wine would be plain milk;
I think we'd oft see stormy weather.

"But, oh, there are some things in life
Worth more to men than fame or money;
And one of them's a sweet young wife,
So pure, so honest, and so bonnie."

Dreaming of You.

My soul feels refreshed, like a rose kissed by dew,
When waking I know I've been dreaming of you.

They thought I was mad. Ah, my sweet, if they knew
That my malady simply was dreaming of you!

I've one wish. 'Tis to sleep all the long ages through
By your side, you my bride, and I dreaming of you.

Please Return.

Now, all you pretty maids in town,
Take heed of my sad plight.
I've lost a kiss; I'll give a crown
To get it back to-night.

I threw it, poet-like, I own,
Up to a silvery star;
I must confess I might have known