WHEN LOVE IS YOUNG
The red and russet of Autumn die,
In the lap of winter their ashes lie,
And the earth is wan and grey the sky.
But the noon of a wondrous joy is mine,
And my pulses thrill with the glowing wine
That flows from the grape of Love’s deathless vine.
What care have I that the brown stems bear
Nor leaf nor bloom, and the mad winds tear
The last poor tatters the forests wear?
Is not the heart in mine own glad breast
A garden of roses, a haven of rest,
A bird that has builded a warm love-nest?
A CHARACTER SKETCH
Womanly-sweet in all her ways,
Slow to condemn, and swift to praise;
Ready to help in hour of need,
Generous in thought as well as deed.
Pitiful, tender, yet firm and strong
To uphold the right and put down wrong;
Never a thought of self or gain,
Proud of her God-given gifts—not vain.
Laughter-loving, and fond of fun,
When the “daily round” and task are done;
Modest and maidenly, yet no prude;
Perfect enough, but not “too good.”