With morning's dawn, the fires
In ashes lie,
And mountains keep their ward
Silently by.
GRACE W. LEACH Madisonensis.
~By the Roadside.~
Shy violets among the tangled grass;
Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing,
Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging;
My love, my true love, down this way will pass.
How shall you know her? By her sunny hair,
Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing:
Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going;
There is no maid in all the land so fair.
Shy violets among the tangled grass,
Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet!
And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass,
Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet;
And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her,
Whisper to her that I came by and love her.
LOUISE R. LOOMIS. Wellesley Magazine.
[Illustration: A WELLESLEY GIRL.]
~"A White Morning"~
Many a morning the trees' slim fingers
Lift to the blue their frosted tips;
Winter has paused beside them, passing,
And blown upon them, through icy lips.