Written, upon my soul, in hat and glove,
Leaves everything unsaid: and what she wrote
Would strangle the young cupid by the throat,
If he were not immortal. I may love,
And she—is glad to have it so. Ah me!
How fine a woman draws the thread of hair
Which holds her lover dangling in the air,
Suspended above all eternity.
RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT.