Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs,
  A knot of vermilion in her hair,
Glances where veiled deception lies,
  A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair,
  Exquisite gowns and roses rare,
Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl—­
  Where is the heart, O woman, where? 
These are the ways of the modern girl.

ENVOY.

Fashion and pique her hours share,
  Nature and truth their standards furl,
Fair as fickle, and false as fair,
  These are the ways of the modern girl.

Columbia Spectator.

A Wish.

Cupid laughs, nor seems to care
How his shafts are wont to harrow. 
Ah! that I could unaware,
Wound him with his golden arrow.

A.
Columbia Spectator.

To Phyllis.

I said your beauty shamed the rose’s blush;
  You thought the simile was trite, untrue;
But, oh, I saw each rose for pleasure flush
  To hear itself compared, dear heart, to you!

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE.
Columbia Spectator.

L’Amour, L’Amour.

We catch the fleeting perfume of roses
  As the evening closes the golden day,
And the rhythmic beating of waves in motion
  Comes from the ocean a mile away;
In the west is dying the sunset’s splendor,
  And twilight tender enfolds the land;
Where the tide is flying a-down the river,
  And the grasses quiver, we silent stand.

In your radiant eyes the sun unknowing
  Has left his glowing to deeper glow,
And your tender sighs sound far more sweetly
  Than the winds that fleetly and blithely blow
And first all shyly your small hand lingers
  With trembling fingers within my own,
The blushes slyly and swiftly starting,
  And then departing like rose-leaves blown.

Alas, the envious time is fleeting,
  But your heart is beating in time with mine,
And Cupid’s rhyme rings louder—­clearer,
  As I draw you nearer, my love divine! 
In the twilight dim we have found love’s tether,
  And are linked together, no more to part;
While the white stars swing in a maze of glory,
  To hear the story that bares your heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Columbia Spectator.

Lines on a Ring.

Oh, precious drop of crystal dew,
Set in a tiny band of gold,
Which doth within its little grasp
A blue-veined finger softly hold—­
Thou failest if thy radiant rays
Are seeking—­bold attempt ’twould be!—­
To show a fraction of the love
That beams from Edith’s eyes on me.

LOREN M. LUKE.
Nassau Literary Monthly.

A Memory.

Shadows up the hillside creeping,
Gold in western sky,
Meadow-brook beneath us keeping
Dreamy lullaby.

Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming—­
Gems in dark robes caught—­
Everything about us seeming
With hidden meaning fraught.