I would the gods had given me
Some mild poetic skill;
In Gertrude's praise I'd sing for days,
And volumes I could fill.
Perhaps you think I love this maid--
In sooth perhaps I do;
Well, If I did, I'd tell her--
But, by Jove, I'd not tell _you._
J.H. Scranton
_Yale Record._
~My Politics.~
I am for gold--her golden hair
Whose mesh my soul entrances;
Caressing this, what do I care
For national finances?
For silver, too--those silver tones
That with her laughter rise;
This wealth, thank God. no law or thrones
Can e'er demonetize.
G.W. PIERCE.
_University of Texas Magazine._
~The Summer Girl.~
A half-reclining form
In a "sleepy-hollow" chair,
A cloud of curls that storm
About her beauty fair,
Two laughing eyes that tell
A shyly answered "Yes."
A dainty hand to--well,
Say simply to caress.
An airy little sprite
In a billowy flood of lace,
Which flutters in its flight
In the galop's tripping grace.
And, oh, the broken hearts
Which follow the rapturous whirl!
Oh, the Redfern gown, and the arts
Of the annual summer girl!
EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly._
~Love's Token.~
The frost and snow of mistletoe,
The warmth of holly berry,
These I combine, O lady mine,
To make thy yule-tide merry.
And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to return
My love, nor deem it folly,
Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear,
And on thy breast the holly.
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