ENIGMA.
In sleep, not in wake.
In sunshine, not in cloud.
In opal, not in flake.
In wrapper, not in shroud.
In singing, not in crying.
In shouting, not in sighing.
In opening, not in shutting.
In ripping, not in cutting.
In mounting, not in standing.
Silent, swift, grand, expanding.
Which poet tells my story?
Who am I, and what's my glory?
Mother Bunch.
No. 5.
THREE CHARADES.
1.
The little maid with whom you played
Would be a chatter-box.
But that my second round my first
Unfortunately locks;
So blushing in her pride, she sits
And mends her father's socks.
2.
My first is on the milk-maid seen,
And on the belted knight,
And on the champion cricketer,
And on the lady bright.
My second's scattered everywhere
In earth and air and sea.
And for my third, it's owned to be
The birthright of the free.
And in my whole, if trouble come,
All patriots in a trice
Would march in armor to the front,
Though life should be the price.