TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
Shall I of fate complain,
Or shall I laugh to-night?
Shall it be hopes that are bright?
Shall it be hopes that are vain?
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
A dear little hand so light,
A moment in mine hath lain;
Kind was its pressure again—
Ah, but it was so slight!
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
Cosmo Monkhouse.
RONDEL.
Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is Lord of you and me.
The blue-bells beckon each passing bee;
The wild wood laughs to the flowered year:
There is no bird in brake or brere,
But to his little mate sings he,
"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me!"
The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear,
The missel-thrush upon the tree
Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free;
And I go singing to my dear,
"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me."