At night when work is done,
Her hand in mine,
The hope of happier days,
And this is wine.
ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER.
_Smith College Monthly._
~A Song.~
This I learned from the birds,
Dear heart,
And they told me in woodland words,
Apart,
And they told me true,
That all their singing the summer through
Was of you, of you.
This I learned from the flowers,
Dear heart,
In the dewy morning hours
Apart,
And they sware it, too,
That all their sweetness the summer through
Was for you, for you.
This I learned from the leaves,
Dear heart,
On stilly, starry eves
Apart,
Though their words were few,
That all their sighing the summer through
Was for you, for you.
This I learned from the stars,
Dear heart,--
From the Seven Sisters, and Mars,
Apart
In the boundless blue,--
That their light the lingering summer through
Was for you, for you.
This I learned from my life,
Dear heart,
'Mid its storms, and stress, and strife,
Apart,
(God knows it's true!)
That I need to love me my long way through,
Only you, dear, you.
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD.
_Nassau Literary Monthly._
~Drifting.~
Drifting in our frail canoe
On the dusky, silent stream,
Dearest, see! The sunset-gleam
Fires love's torch for me and you.
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