Whoe'er it was, that distant day,
That loved to strike thy mellow strings,
Whoever sang that sweet love-lay,
Its echo still within thee rings.
Though Maude may vow she loves me not,
And jolly glees may lightly play,
I look beyond the surface thought,
And hear that echoing old love-lay.
L. C. STONE. Amherst Literary Monthly.
[Illustration: A BROWN GIRL.]
~Tantalizing.~
Her rosy cheeks are pressed to mine,
Her gleaming hair lies on my shoulder,
Her arms are clasped about my neck,
And yet my arms do not enfold her.
Her throbbing heart beats loud and fast,
Her wistful eyes are gently pleading.
Her blushing lips are pursed to kiss,
And yet my lips are all unheeding.
I coldly loose her clinging arms,
And roughly from my side I shove her.
It's amateur theatricals,
And I must play the tyrant lover.
HENRY MORGAN STONE. Brunonian
~Phantasy.~