IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES”
The City’s roar is rising from the street;
The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife;
They plod and push, and elbow as they meet,
And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”
For us the fireside hearth is all aglow,
And those we love make up the life we know.
IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY”
The year is old, the way is far;
I catch your image like a star
That’s mirrored in a crystal brook;
For love of you I send a book!
A VALENTINE
Though all the streams are white with frost
And all the fields with snow,
Though earth its greenery has lost,
And biting gales do blow—
Still I’ll recall the summer hours,
The blue skies and the vine—
The hillsides pink with Alpine flowers
To greet my Valentine!