CORA ISABEL WARBURTON. Smith College Monthly.
~A Mystery.~
Once, a little while ago, 'twas so warm and still
Down here, in this soft, dark place. Now I feel a thrill
Darting through me. Shivering, quivering, bursts my wrappage brown,
Struggling, striving, something in me reaches up and down.
Ah! it must be death, this anguish that I cannot understand.
One inch more,—I lift my head above the parted mould,
Oh! what rapture! Falling on me something sweet and gold,
Something humming, singing, moving, growing on each side;
High above me a blue glory stretching far and wide,—
And I know 'twas life, that anguish that I could not understand.
MARY E. HOYT. Bryn Mawr Lantern.
~The Birch-Tree.~
Like a shower, breeze-suspended,
Caught and played with by the air,
April from the sky descended,
Tricked by sunshine unaware,
To a pale green fountain fashioned,
Silver shaft with airy fling,
Tremulous and sun-impassioned
Is the birch-tree in the spring.
Like the spirit of the fountain—
Seen when earth was yet a child—
Leaping, white-armed, from the mountain,
Laughing, beckoning, water-wild,
Sheen of mist her beauty veiling,
Which she only half can hide,
Garments o'er her white feet trailing,
Seems the birch at summer-tide.
E.A.H. Inlander.
~My Quest.~