SONNET.
Young bride, that findest not a single star
Shining to-night with longed for prophecy,
Though snowy drifts are swelling near and far,
They need not chill thy happy hope and thee.
If blue had overarched the earth all day,
And heaven were brilliant with its stars to-night,
"A happy omen!" many a guest would say,
And think that Fortune blessed the sacred rite.
Be superstition far from thee, sweet soul: