So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,
Smiling down on me here below,
Never a care on her brow impressed,
Never the dream of a thought confessed
Of all the weariness and the woe,
Hearts would break were time not so slow.
Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.
Old love, or new love--which was the best?
For this was her grandmother years ago.
_Southern Collegian_.
~The Convert.~
I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,
And the telling bewitchment of curls,
And that men were excessively stupid
To be madly devoted to girls.
I remarked that true love was unstable,
As compared with position or pelf,
'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,
And learned what it felt like, myself!
Don't read all the things I have written
When I knew that my heart was my own,
But since I confess I am smitten,
Read these little verses alone.
And sincerely I trust I'll be able
To convince you, you sly little elf,
To grant me your heart, little Mabel,
And learn what it feels like yourself!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Literary Monthly_.
~A Thief's Apology.~
I stole a kiss!--What could I do?
Before the door we stood, we two,
About to say a plain good-by;
She seemed so innocent and shy,
But what she thought, I thought I knew.
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