Ah! the flash of those orbs is enslaving me still,
As they roll ’neath the palpebræ, dimly translucent,
Obeying in silence the magical will
Of the oculo-motor—pathetic—abducent.
Oh, sweet is thy voice, as it sighingly swells
From the daintily quivering chordæ vocales,
Or rings in clear tones through the echoing cells
Of the antrum, the ethmoid, and sinus frontales!
ODE TO SPRING.
WRITTEN IN A LAWYER’S OFFICE.