Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied;
The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied;
The beech has shed its store of bitter mast,
And days are drear and skies are overcast,
But Love will warm our hearts whate'er betide
When summer dies.
Arthur G. Wright.
MY LITTLE SWEETHEART.
Across the pew, with complaisance
And eyes that with Love's sunshine dance,
My little sweetheart smiles at me—
She is the only saint I see;
The sermon passes in a trance.
The painted figures gaze askance,
Down from their glassy vigilance,
On this our tender heresy
Across the pew.
Ah! little sweetheart, the romance
Of Life, with all its change and chance,
Is but a sealëd book to thee—
When opened, may its pages be
As fair and sweet as thy bright glance
Across the pew!
Arthur G. Wright.