GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
~How I Love Her.~
Dear, I'll tell you how I love you—
Not by singing sweetly of you—
Oh, I love you far too much,
For the daintiest rhyme's light touch;
No, it needs no language signs,
It's written here between the lines,
How I love you! You will see
If you look there, loving me.
C.B. NEWTON. Nassau Literary Monthly.
~Polly.~
She fluttered gaily down the hill—
That merry, dimpled lass—
She hurried singing down the hill,
And then she loitered by the mill,
And saw the bubbles pass,
Made double in the glass
Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.
She heard a sparrow pertly cry,
She smelt the new-mown hay,
She felt the sunshine in the sky,
As lightly she went skipping by,
A-down the sunny way—
'Twas like a holiday,
The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.
And Cupid's wings were on her feet,
As nimbly she ran down;
And Cupid's wings were on her feet:
For pretty Polly went to meet
Her lover in the town.
She wore that lilac gown
That made him say—oh, nothing to repeat!
CHARLES W. SHOPE. Harvard Advocate.
~Under the Rose.~