DULCES AMARYLLIDIS IRÆ.
I told my love a truth she liked not well;
She spoke no word. I raised my eyes to watch
Her cheek’s red flush, her bosom’s angry swell;
She rose to go; her hand was on the latch;
When some swift thought—of my fond love, maybe,
Or ill-requited patience—bowed her head:
She faltered, paused with foot half raised to flee,
Then turned, and stole into my arms instead.
Reproduced, by special arrangement, from “Under the Hawthorn, and Other Verse,” by Augusta de Gruchy.
London: Edwin Matthews and John Lane, 1893.
A SPLENDID TIME—AHEAD.
By Walter Besant.
