Yet do I love thee none the less;
And aye to me it seems,
There's not on earth so fair a thing
As thou art in my dreams.
All, all hath darkly changed beside,
Grown old, or stern, or chill—
All, save one hoarded spring-tide gleam,
Thy smile that haunts me still!
My brow is but the register
Of youth's and joy's decline;
I would not trace such record too
Deep graven upon thine.
I would not see how rudely Time
Hath dealt with all thy store
Of bloom and promise—'tis enough
To know the harvest's o'er.
I would not that one glance to-day,
One glance through clouds and tears,
Should mar the image in my soul
That love hath shrined for years.
J. D.
SECLUSION.
The heart in sacred peace may dwell,
Apart from convent gloom—
To matins and to vespers rise,
'Mid nature's song and bloom:
Or in the busy haunts of life,
In gay or restless scene,
In sanctuary calm abide,
As vestal saint serene.
It is the pure and holy thought,
The spotless veil within,
That screens pollution from the breast,
And hides a world of sin.
J. D.