Yet when I beg of her to deign
To answer, give it joy or pain,
She smiles. So then I cannot go,
For with her smiles my love doth grow.
Yet when I press my suit again,
Clarissa laughs.
RUTH PARSONS MILNE.
_Smith College Monthly_.
~'Mid the Roses.~
'Mid the roses she is standing,
In her garden, waiting there;
Roses all about her glowing,
Roses shining in her hair.
May I, dare I, ask the question
Which my heart has asked before?
Then I falter, "Can you love me,
Darling?" I can say no more.
Now the petals fall more slowly:
One has lodged upon her dress;
Now her eyes she raises gently;
Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."
F.T. GEROULD.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly_.
~A Society Martyr.~
Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace,
A half-languid smile upon each listless face,--
A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,--
A medley of modern and Grecian maids.
Such clatter and clink
One scarcely can think
Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,--
For how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?
Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down,
Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,--
A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the rest
Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast,
The curves of her neck
Man's vow often wreck,--
She has the whole world at her call and her beck.
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