Her little hands write, but they're not always white,
With marks of good usage they're speckled,
While the face, once so fair, has been kissed by the air,
Until 'tis considerably freckled.
She has her full part of a true woman's art,
Her share of a woman's warm feeling!
She knows what to hide, with a true woman's pride,
When the world would but scorn the revealing.
This earth is no place fancy beauties to trace,
Or seek for perfection uncertain;
Then why mourn our fate, when sooner or late,
Reality peeps through the curtain.
But if we must cling to the form lingering
And cherished within us so dearly,
We must gaze from afar, as upon some bright star,
And never approach it more nearly.
THE HUMAN VOICE.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
We all love the music of sky, earth and sea—
The chirp of the cricket—the hum of the bee—
The wind-harp that swings from the bough of the tree—
The reed of the rude shepherd boy:
All love the bird-carols when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into song as they run,
When the stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
And hills clap their hands in their joy.