IN

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).

D

THE HEART OF A SONG

EAR love, let this my song fly to you:
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 Beloved's heart.

DORA GREENWELL.

UNDER THE KING

OVE with the deep eyes and soft hair,
Love with the lily throat and hands,

L

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.

Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

"A THOUSAND YEARS IN THY SIGHT ARE BUT AS ONE DAY»

N

EITHER joy nor sorrow move

The figure at the feet of Love;

Light of breathing life is she,

Spirit of immortality.

Lead me up thy stony stair,
O Spirit, into thy great air!
For his day of pain and tears
Is to man a thousand years.

ANNIE FIElds.

FOR A NOVEMBER BIRTHDAY

HEN first our rose of love disclosed its heart,

WHEN

Thy natal day (I thought) comes with the spring,
When from the sky the doubting clouds depart,
And rare, rathe blossoms o'er the woodland fling

A mystic sense of joy.

Yet bitter tears

Will start unbidden at the touch of May.

Love's ecstasy begets love's longing and love's fears,
And naught of these may mar thy natal day.

When I had learned the richness of thy gift,
Surely the happy month (I thought) is June,
When full and strong the waves of life uplift
The heart upon their surges.

Yet too soon

The ebbing tide will leave the lonely shore;
Full soon the rose must let her beauty fall;
Love's torch will burn to ashes. But no more

May any change our changeless love befall.

Lo! spring and summer faded, and the year

In all their sunny round brought not the morn; But now, 'mid autumn's melancholy cheer,

'Mid soughing boughs and pallid light, 'tis born.

-Oh let the day this message tell:

Not rapture is love's crowning gift, but peace.

GEORGE M. WHICHER.

THE SURFACE AND THE DEPTHS

OVE took my life and thrilled it
Through all its strings,

Played round my mind and filled it
With sound of wings;

But to my heart he never came

To touch it with his golden flame.

Therefore it is that singing

I do rejoice,

Nor heed the slow years bringing

A harsher voice;

Because the songs which he has sung
Still leave the untouched singer young.

But whom in fuller fashion

The Master sways,