* * * * *
NO KISS.
"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite,
To a pretty little tune,
Holding up her dainty mouth,
Sweet as roses born in June.
Will was ten years old that day,
And he pulled her golden curls
Teasingly, and answer made—
"I'm too old—I don't kiss girls."
Ten years pass, and Marguerite
Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
Gazing fondly in her eyes,
Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?"
'Rite is seventeen to-day,
With her birthday ring she toys
For a moment, then replies:
"I'm too old—I don't kiss boys."
* * * * *
KEYS.
Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.
Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.
But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.
Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.