The Yale Literary Magazine

To me thou art

The perfect model of a transient joy;
The first fair love that charms a growing boy,
And stirs his heart.

I would forget

The long ago when first I saw thy face,
Upturned and lovely with a perfumed grace
That haunts me yet.

It mirrored then

A thousand thoughts, each from a placid calm
Which threw its image with a throbbing charm
That glowed again.

Those hopes are dead,

As in their last embrace thy red leaves close-
As in the hidden, not the perfect rose

That bares its head.

And in the past

The dreams that were are wrapt within the cloud
Of riper thought, and that to which we bowed

Is gone at last.

-Harvard Advocate.

46 THE ISLE OF THE SIRENS."

When waves that ripple on that peaceful shore
Laugh in the gay delight of wanton hate;
With watchful malice, patiently they wait
To catch the distant sound of plashing oar.
And then the laugh becomes an angry roar,
The Sirens' heavenly song, the call of fate,
The waters gape, revealing hell's dark gate,
That opens, closes, opens nevermore.
But ah! the rapture of that wondrous song
Is sweeter far than all the joys of light.

-Dartmouth Lit.

THE BIRTH OF THE WHITE VIOLET.

I know a place where the violet blows,

A shadowy, silent dell,

And only the stream beside me knows
This spot where the violets dwell.

'Tis a nook where twilight fancies hide,
And sleepy shadows dream;
Where only the pale-eyed violets guide
The footsteps of the stream.

-Brown Magazine.