Last night the blush rose clustered,—
To-day the rough wind blows
In showers her broken petals;
Last night,—yet no one knows,—
I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart,
Under the rose!
Last night my fond hope blossomed,—
To-day December snows
Drift deep and cold above it;
To-day,—ah! no one knows,—
My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart,
Under the rose!
CATHERINE Y. GLEN. Mount Holyoke.
[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]
~A Bit of Human Nature.~
'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes,
So long-lashed, soft, and brown,
Half hiding the light that in them lies,
As dreamily looking down.
'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip,
Half full, half clear defined,
And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip,
And a figure half reclined.
'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair,
With sunlight sifted through,
And a truant curl just here and there,
And a knot of ribbon blue.
'Tis only the wave of a feather fan,
That ruffles the creamy lace,
Loose gathered about the bosom fair,
By rhinestones held in place.
'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe,
With the glimpse of a color above—
A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue,
The shade that lovers love.