GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._
~Lines on a Ring.~
Oh, precious drop of crystal dew,
Set in a tiny band of gold,
Which doth within its little grasp
A blue-veined finger softly hold--
Thou failest if thy radiant rays
Are seeking--bold attempt 'twould be!--
To show a fraction of the love
That beams from Edith's eyes on me.
LOREN M. LUKE.
_Nassau Literary Monthly_.
~A Memory.~
Shadows up the hillside creeping,
Gold in western sky,
Meadow-brook beneath us keeping
Dreamy lullaby.
Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming--
Gems in dark robes caught--
Everything about us seeming
With hidden meaning fraught.
Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning,
Challenge if I dare,
Vie with amorous sunbeams burning
O'er her face and hair.
But a truce to idle musing--
That was long ago.
Was she gracious or refusing?
You may never know.
Winter's snows those fields are hiding
'Neath a robe of white,
For another she is biding
Tryst of love to-night.
I was only glancing over
A book beloved of yore,
When a sprig of mountain clover
Fluttered to the floor.
IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.
[Illustration: A WESLEYAN GIRL.]
~The Soul's Kiss.~
Not your sweet, red lips, dear,
Tremulous with sighs,
Lest their passion dull love's rapture;
Kiss me with your eyes.
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