_Smith College Monthly_.
~Song.~
The April sun smiles bright above,
The skies are deep and blue,
I walk among the growing fields
And dream, sweetheart, of you.
And as I go, from out the wood
A mocking-bird calls clear,
"Sweetheart, sweetheart," and I turn,
Half hoping thou art here.
Alas! the sunlight floods the earth,
Yet all is dark to me;
The flowers may gaily bud and bloom,
The earth be fair to see;
And "sweetheart, sweetheart," evermore
The mocking-bird may sing,
But in a fairer land thine eyes
Are opening to the spring.
R.L. EATON.
_Morningside_.
~The Effigy.~
And so she smiles!--Nor frown nor pout
That look divine can put to rout.
I would, my love, thou wert half
So constant as thy photograph!
P.P.S.
_Parthenon_.
~Sotto Voce.~
Sing we of the summer,
Of the old, old days,
Of the reed songs and the murmur
Of the waterways.
Let thy song be merry, ever mine be sad;
Let thy sigh be airy, even ofttimes glad;
For then comes a sadness I cannot explain,
Like the deep-plunged echo of a sea's refrain;
And it dooms the sweetness
Of her winsome ways
To the dead completeness
Of the old, old days.
Sing, Oh! then with joyance,
Thou, my mandolin;
Drown each dread annoyance
Deep, thy soul within;
Whisper ever lowly of her glad, true eyes;
Sing her name, love, slowly, thou can'st sympathize;
Teach my heart, my wilful heart, the faith of peace,
Promising her constancy with time's increase.
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