MY LOVE IN HER ATTIRE DOTH SHEW HER WIT

Y LOVE in her attire doth shew her wit,

MY

It doth so well become her:

For every season she hath dressings fit,

For winter, spring, and summer.

No beauty she doth miss.

When all her robes are on;

But Beauty's self she is

When all her robes are gone.

Author Unknown.

WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES

HENAS in silks my Julia goes,

W

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free-
O how that glittering taketh me!

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE TIME O' DAY

F I SHOULD look for the time o' day

On the rose's dial red,

I should think it was just the sunrise hour,
From the flush of its petals spread.

And if I would tell by the lily-bell,

I should think it was calm, white noon;
And the violet's blue would tell by its hue
Of the evening coming soon.

But when I would know by my lady's face,
I am all perplexed the while;

For it's always starlight by her eyes,

And sunlight by her smile.

ALBION FELLOWS BACON.

C

DEFIANCE

LOTHO, Lachesis, Atropos!

All your gain is not my loss.

Spin your black threads if you will;
Twist them, turn, with all your skill.
Hold! there s one you cannot sever!
One bright thread shall last forever.

You are defied, you, Atropos!
Draw your glittering shears across,-
One still mocks your cruel art!
From the fibres of my heart
Did I spin the shining thread

That will live when you are dead.

Fate, but hark! one thing I'll teach:
There are wonders past your reach,
Of the heart and of the soul,-
Woman's love's past your control!
These are not threads of your spinning,
No, nor shall be of your winning.

ANNIE FIELDS.

I

IF LOVE WERE NOT

F LOVE were not, the wilding rose
Would in its leafy heart inclose
No chalice of perfume.

By mossy bank in glen or grot,
No bird would build, if love were not,
No flower complacent bloom.

The sunset clouds would lose their dyes,
The light would fade from beauty's eyes,
The stars their fires consume.

And something missed from hall and cot
Would leave the world, if love were not,
A wilderness of gloom.

FLORENCE EARLE COATES.

I

PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN

NA little precious stone what splendor meets the eyes!
In a little lump of sugar, how much of sweetness lies!
So in a little woman love grows and multiplies:
You recollect the proverb says, A word unto the wise.

A peppercorn is very small, but seasons every dinner
More than all other condiments, although 'tis sprinkled thinner:
Just so a little woman is, if love will let you win her,-
There's not a joy in all the world you will not find within her.

And as within the little rose you find the richest dyes,
And in a little grain of gold much price and value lies,
As from a little balsam much odor doth arise,

So in a little woman there's a taste of paradise.

The skylark and the nightingale, though small and light of wing,

Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the birds that sing; And so a little woman, though a very little thing,

Is sweeter far than sugar and flowers that bloom in spring.

JUAN RUIZ DE HITA (Spanish).

THE HEART OF A SONG

EAR love, let this my song fly to you:

DEA

Perchance forget it came from me.
It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;
But in your breast lie quietly.

Only beware when once it tarries,
I cannot coax it from you then:
This little song my whole heart carries,
And ne'er will bear it back again.

For if its silent passion grieve you,

My heart would then too heavy grow;

And it can never, never leave you,

If joy of yours must with it go!

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

«BRING ME WORD HOW TALL SHE IS »

WOMAN IN 1873

"How tall is your Rosalind?»— “Just as high as my heart.»

Forbidding her to rise,

By many cords and ties

She held him to the ground.

At length, in stature grown,

He stands erect and free;

Yet stands he not alone,

For his beloved would be

Like him she loveth, wise, like him she loveth, free.

So wins she her desire;

Yet stand they not apart:

For as she doth aspire

He grows; nor stands she higher

Than her Belovèd's heart.

DORA GREENWELL.

UNDER THE KING

OVE with the deep eyes and soft hair,

L

Love with the lily throat and hands,

Is done to death, and free as air

Am I of all my King's commands.

How shall I celebrate my joy?

Or dance with feet that once were fleet

In his adorable employ?

Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet?

How can I at his lifeless face

Aim any sharp or bitter jest,
Since roguish destiny did place
That tender target in my breast?

Nay, let me be sincere and strong:
I cannot rid me of my chains,

I cannot to myself belong:

My King is dead-his soul still reigns.

ETHELWYN WETHERALD.