Am I? well, so I have been told,
  Though never yet have I confessed it;
But you, sir, seem so very bold
  That I—­well, I admit you’ve guessed it. 
Alas! ’tis true I’m heartless; yes,
  They’re right, but only right in part;
The reason, dear, is—­can’t you guess? 
  Because—­because you have my heart.

JOHN ALAN HAMILTON.
Cornell Magazine.

Clarissa Laughs.

Clarissa laughs.  I plead in vain,
She hears my suit with sweet disdain,
When I remind her—­speaking low—­
That once she did not flout me so,
She asks me—­do I think ’twill rain? 
Then when in anger I am fain
To leave her, swear I’ve naught to gain
  By staying, save th’increase of woe,
    Clarissa laughs.

Yet when I beg of her to deign
To answer, give it joy or pain,
  She smiles.  So then I cannot go,
  For with her smiles my love doth grow. 
Yet when I press my suit again,
    Clarissa laughs.

RUTH PARSONS MILNE.
Smith College Monthly.

’Mid the Roses.

’Mid the roses she is standing,
  In her garden, waiting there;
Roses all about her glowing,
  Roses shining in her hair.

May I, dare I, ask the question
  Which my heart has asked before? 
Then I falter, “Can you love me,
  Darling?” I can say no more.

Now the petals fall more slowly: 
  One has lodged upon her dress;
Now her eyes she raises gently;
  Meeting mine, they answer “Yes.”

F.T.  GEROULD.
Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

A Society Martyr.

Rustling billows of silk ’neath the foam of old lace,
A half-languid smile upon each listless face,—­
A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,—­
A medley of modern and Grecian maids. 
  Such clatter and clink
  One scarcely can think
  Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,—­
For how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?

Fair Phyllis’s gold lashes demurely cast down,
Her face in sweet doubt ’twixt a smile and a frown,—­
A venturesome rosebud o’ertopping the rest
Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast,
  The curves of her neck
  Man’s vow often wreck,—­
  She has the whole world at her call and her beck. 
So how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such variant emotions at afternoon teas?

Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips’ sharp gaze,
Is acted in mime one of life’s dearest plays,—­
Sweet Bessie’s brown eyes raised beseechingly up,
Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup,
  And Fred, I much fear,
  From small sounds that I hear,
  Is as bold as the rim of her cup,—­and as near,—­
And how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?