th snow;
The rose-bud mouth so dainty curved
To sterner lines will grow.
The fleeting years will mark with change
Each feature now they prize,
Save only the sweet eyes I love--
I love him for his eyes.

Those wondrous, wondrous soulful eyes,
How strange the spell they fling
Unconsciously around my heart;
What memories they bring!
What buried hours come thronging back--
A distant, dearer clime--
Another pair of love-lit eyes,
Another summer time.

Oh, baby, take your eyes away:
They burn into my heart!
I'll kiss you once, and say good-by,
And hid the tears that start;
But through the years to come and go,
The changeful scenes to rise,
I'll love the little baby boy--
I love him for his eyes.

* * * * *

ONLY.

Only a sentence earnest spoke,
With never a thought to word it,
Fell like balm from the sea of calm,
On the aching heart that heard it.

Only a glance, a scornful smile,
A wavering purpose altered,
Goaded a hand the crime to do
At which before it faltered.

Only a kiss, a love caress,
Tender and trustful given,
Banished a cloud from brow of care,
Made home a woman's Heaven.

Only a secret, chance disclosed,
Whence secret should be never,
A doubt crept into the heart that loved
And its light went out forever.

Only a prayer, a wrong confessed,
By suppliant lowly kneeling,
Opened the gate where the angels wait,
Life's Eden field revealing.

Careful then scatter the little things,
They make life drear and lonely,
Or strew its way with flowers gay,--
We live by trifles only.

SOMEBODY'S BABY'S DEAD.

A hearse all draped in mourning,
With white plumes overhead,
Bearing a little coffin--
Somebody's baby's dead.

Upon the velvet cover
Some hand has placed a wreath,
White as the waxen features
Of the baby that lies beneath.

Out in the graveyard making
A rest for a shining head,
Somebody's heart is breaking,
Somebody's baby's dead.

Over a baby's coffin,
Heaping a mound of clay,
Somebody's hopes are buried
In that little grave to-day.

Somebody's home is dreary,
Somebody's sunshine fled,
Somebody's sad and weary,
Somebody's baby's dead.

THE WITHERED ROSEBUD.

I gathered you, sweet little rosebud,
With a dew crown encircling your head;
Now, out of the window I toss you,
Shriveled, and scentless, and dead.
You had opened to wondrous perfection,
Had only my han