BY ELOISE PICKETT.
Wearied to death of my thoughts!
Is there none, in this epoch of wondrous wares,
Will sell me a fair, sweet dream?
I summoned my spirit, this morn, to be chid
For her endless weaving of gloom;
But she lifted me retrospective eyes,
Burning and dry (for the tears, dammed back,
Have found them a pool in my heart);
Her face was wan, and her mouth was set