first pressure astonish'd my hand,
When I first fancied that _I_ might be dear--
Life was a miracle joyous and grand.

When he first woo'd me with prayers, for his own,
Suddenly came an eclipse of the light:
Sighing, I wish'd he would let me alone;
Smiling, I long'd to hide out of his sight.

Life being lit by a fairy-like gleam,
Sparkling and glittering, tender and pure,
Was not he stupid to change such a dream
Into reality tame and secure?

'Tis sweet to find I am wrong in the thought,
Joy is but brighter for being confess'd;
Every moment has happiness brought,
Every stage of true love is the best.

They wish me at home to sit and to sew--
And I like to do what my aunt thinks right--
But the stitching never seem'd half so slow,
Nor zigzagg'd itself as it did one night.

And my work kept slipping out of my hand
As wonderful thoughts came into my head:
Sure, life is becoming too bright and grand
To be given up to needles and thread!

I was thinking of words that Harry spake,
And of looks that more than mere words betray,
With a joy as pure as the first snow-flake,
And almost as ready to melt away.

And with little tears beginning to start,
And with smiles and blushes that come and go;
And I did not know what was in my heart,
Or else I pretended I did not know!

O sudden awaking from dream so fair!
'Tis the voice of my aunt, and I hear it say--
'Child, are you falling asleep in your chair?
Will you _ever_ finish that collar, May?'

I caught up my work (I knew I was wrong),
Determin'd to finish it ere we sup;
But something within me, for me too strong,
Conquer'd myself, and I _had_ to give up.

'O, my Aunt Bridget,' I timidly said,
'I am _tired_ of stitching--I _want_ to rest;
O let me gather the roses instead,
The young little roses the first and best.'

Soft summer twilights caressing the air
Have buried the garden in lovely gloom;
But I knew that the eagerest roses there
Were just beginning to think they might bloom.

The pretty wee stars kept peeping about,
And even peep'd in through our prison bars,
As she gravely said, 'Who ever went out
To gather a rose by the light of stars?'

My heart beat fast at the beautiful phrase;
She had not intended it, I suppose,
But I felt I could love her all my days,
If under the stars I might pluck one rose!

Pleading my cause in so ardent