Thy face is on my sleep;
I only ask that love like this
May pray for thee and weep.”
L. E. L.
“We know not love till those we love depart.”
L. E. L.
“Why will you sing that old-fashioned song, dear Annie, when you have so many much better suited to your voice?” expostulated Reginald de Vere, as he led the young songstress from her harp to a more retired seat. “I do not like your throwing away so much power and sweetness on a song which, of all others, I hate the most.”
“Do not say so, Reginald. You are not usually fastidious, or I would say, had that sweet melody Italian words instead of English, you would acknowledge its beauty, and feel it too.”
“Perhaps so, as it is not the melody, but the words I quarrel with—‘Home, sweet home.’ What charm has home ever had for me? Change the words, dear Annie, English or Italian, I care not, only remove all association of home, and I will learn to love it more.”
“Nay, Reginald; to banish such association would be to banish its greatest charm. One day you, too, may feel its truth.”