A LOVE-THOUGHT.

If thou wert only, love, a tiny flower,

And I a butterfly with gaudy wings,

Flitting to changing scenes each changing hour,

Careless of aught save that which pleasure brings—

Not even I could leave the lowliest glade

That held thy loveliness within its shade.

If thou wert but a streamlet in the vale,

And I a sailor on a stormy sea,

Flying through whirling foam beneath the gale,

Chartless in all that wild immensity—

Thy murmuring voice would echo in my soul

Through howling storm or crashing thunder-roll.

If, darling, thou wert but a far-off star,

And I a weary wanderer o’er the plain,

Unwitting of celestial worlds afar,

And knowing naught of all the shining train—

My glance would single out thy ray serene,

Though blazing suns and planets rolled between.

Yet, dear one, thou art these to me, and more:

My flower, whose radiance passeth all decay;

My streamlet of sweet thoughts in endless store;

My star, to guide my steps to perfect day;

My hope in earth’s dark dungeon of despair;

My refuge ’mid life’s weary noonday glare.

H. Ernest Nichol.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The eruption of May was noticed in a previous article (Nov. 24, 1883).