~The Thorn that Guards.~
Far in the corner on the stairs,
We were sitting together, she and I;
The murmuring music was soft and low,
Like zephyrs that float 'neath a summer sky.
She held in her fingers a deep red rose,
And was plucking the petals, one by one;
Her eyes were filled with the dreamy light
That softens the west when the day is done.
"Ah, Mildred, you are a bud yourself;
Its blushing sweetness is wholly thine;
Cannot you let me press the flower,
And keep it forever, and call it mine?"
The fair lips trembled, the dimples smiled,
Her eyes told clearly that I had lost;
But my heart still hoped, till she gently sighed,
"You forget what _American Beauties_ cost."
T.G.P.
_Cornell Era_.
~A Kiss.~
"A kiss it is a poeme faire."--_Old Song._
A kiss is not like the poems at all
Which I drop through the editor's office door;
For I like it as well "returned with thanks,"
As "accepted, with a request for more."
L.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.
~The Modern Book.~
Extremely small or of giant size,
Bound in vellum or boards antique,
The pages of paper made by hand
With deckle edge and shape unique;
Margins four inches wide, at least,
And straggling o'er the page a line
Or two (no more), of beautiful print
In type advertised as "our own design.
Pages:
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