HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS.
Columbia Literary Monthly.

I. LOVE AND SENTIMENT

Love Laughs.

“Love laughs at locksmiths,” laughs ho! ho! 
Still Thisbe steals to meet a beau,
  Naught recks of bolt and bar and night,
  And father’s frown and word despite. 
As in the days of long ago,
In southern heat and northern snow
Still twangs the archer’s potent bow,
  And as his flying arrows smite,
    Love laughs.

Trinity Tablet.

Where Cupid Dwells.

Way over the seas, is a far, far land,
  Where skies are blue and gold;
Where ripples break on a silver sand,
  And sunbeams ne’er grow old;
There’s a dale where Cupid dwells, they say,
And ’tis there that he rests from his frolic play.

Oh, there’s many a lass and many a swain
  That knows of his shafts made there;
For Cupid spares naught of a deep heart-pain. 
  Though love be all his care. 
And I think he should make a reflection or two,
When he rests over there from his play.  Don’t you?

ROBERT L. MUNGER.
Yale Courant.

To Ruby Lips.

Two ruby lips are hers; a pair
Of eyes a cynic to ensnare,
  A tinted cheek, a perfect nose,
  A throat as white as winter’s snows,
And o’er her brow bright golden hair.

But, though she’s everything that’s fair,
My captured fancy’s focused where
  A saucy smile suffuses those
          Two ruby lips.

Why longer wait their sweets to share? 
We’re safe behind the portiere. 
  A moment, then, that no one knows—­
  Ah! now she’s flown, couleur de rose,
With, one might hint (but who would dare?)
          Too ruby lips.

H.A.  RICHMOND.
The Tech.

A Gift.

My friend holds careless in his palm
  A glittering stone. 
He does not know a jewel rare
  Is all his own.

But in its flashing lights I see
  A diamond shine,
And though he holds it in his hand,
  The gem is mine.

ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER.
Smith College Monthly.

Jacqueminot.

Are you filled with wonder, Jacqueminot,
Do you think me mad that I kiss you so? 
If a rose could only its thoughts express,
I’d find you mocking, I more than guess;
And yet if you vow me a fond old fool,
Just think if your own fine pulse was cool
When you lay in her tresses an hour ago,
      Jacqueminot.

This pale, proud girl, you must understand,
Held all my fate in her small white hand,
And when I asked her to be my bride,
She wanted a day to think—­decide;
And I asked, if her answer were no, she’d wear
A Marshal Niel to the ball in her hair,
But if ’twere yes, she would tell me so
      By a Jacqueminot.