a way,
Almost evoking an answering glow,
Crying, 'You once were as young and as gay'--
Then, she smil'd a little and let me go.

'Twas pleasure enough to be out of doors;
I look'd at the stars and I felt content:
But it never rains, you know, but it pours,
And the path that I _had_ to go--I went!

Playing with fancies, in fanciful play,
'If I want a rose,' I demurely said,
'I must look for an omen to point the way,
And I must look for it over my head.'

So I found a star that shone in the sky,
And mark'd how it glitter'd down on a tree,
And felt--but I swear that I know not why--
There grow the roses intended for me!

And as I approach the shadowy boughs
That are spreading out over earth and air,
A gay little miracle fate allows,
And the star appears to be sparkling there!

Gladly I ran o'er the daisy-clad plain,
Led by the shimmering light of the star,
And under the tree I found--Harry Vane
Lying, and smoking a 'mild cigar!'

I started astonish'd--he stood upright,
And said, in a voice persuasively kind,
'Don't you _know_ that I come here every night,
To see your shadow flit by on the blind?'

I look'd where he pointed, as if 'twas I
Could see my own phantom flicker and pass,--
And _Aunt Bridget's_ shadow mov'd solemnly by,
Over the canvas that hangs by the glass!

Oh, how could we help it?--we laugh'd aloud
(Birds never cease their sweet voices in spring;
And I think in youth little laughters crowd
And spring to our lips at everything!)

In laughter we lost all sense of surprise;
It seem'd only natural we should meet;
And a star shot flaming across the skies,
And a little glow-worm gleam'd at my feet.

And a distant bell swung its solemn chime,
That seem'd to me like the voice of a star;
And I think, through a century of time,
I shall always believe that such things are.

And then--it was then--he spoke, and I heard;
And the moon rose up, and the stars grew dim,
And all of a sudden the nightingale-bird
Triumphantly chanted her jubilant hymn.

What are you singing about, little birds,
Twittering loudly in lime-tree and oak?
Telling each other the wonderful words
On a sweet May evening a lover spoke?

Butterflies, floating away from the trees,
With blossom-like wings of delicate dye,
You are bearing tidings certain to please,
Scatter them freely, but do not ask why.

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