How should he read her face aright?
Upon her brow the hair is bright,
Within her eyes a tender light,
Her luring hands are lily-white,
Tho' blood be red upon the slab;
Her calling voice is siren-sweet,—
He crouches fawning at her feet,—
It is a fatal thing to meet
The Ladye of the Lab!
And she hath ta'en him with a string
To where the linnets never sing,
Where stiff and still is everything,
And there a heart lies quivering
When blood is red upon the slab;
O little dog that wandered free!
And hath she done this thing to thee?
How may she work her will with me,—
The Ladye of the Lab!
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.
~Our Wrongs.~
When girls are only babies,
Their mammas quite insist
That they by us—
Against our wills—
Be kissed—kissed—kissed.
But when those girls
Are sweet eighteen,
Their mammas say we sha'n't,
And though we'd like to kiss them,
We can't—can't—can't.
C.F.H. Williams Weekly.
~A Snare and a Delusion.~
Between the trees a hammock swings
On the lawn, at twilight's glow;
Oh, what bliss sweet memory brings
Of the days of long ago!
A dainty gown of spotless white,
Moulded to a faultless form,
Fashioned like a fairy sprite,
Riding on love's tidal storm.