WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly._
~From My Window.~
I sit within my little room
And see the world pass by,
The merry, youthful, thoughtless world,
That knows not I am I.
I watch it from my window ledge
Below me, at its play--
It makes an end of foolish things,
And thinks the sad ones gay.
And there above I sit, alone,
Behind my curtains long,
And I but peep, and mock a bit,
And sing a bit of song.
EDITH THEODORA AMES.
_Smith College Monthly._
~To a Friend.~
Your eyes are--but I cannot tell
Just what's the color of your eyes,
I only know therein doth dwell
A something that can sympathize,
When selfish love would fail to see
The depths revealed alone to me.
JOHN GOWDY.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._
~Love and Death.~
_Love and death_ is all of poets' singing,
What sounds else can stir the heavenly breath?
What save these can set the lyre-strings ringing:
Love and death?
What things else in maiden spirit springing?
What words else in all the preacher saith?
What thoughts else in God, the world forthbringing?
In the moon's pulse and the sea's slow swinging,
Death that draws, and love that sighs beneath:
Yea, life's wine is mingled; sweet, and stinging,--
Love and death.
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