My heart found heaven, I had seen my sign,
And after the dance I knew her mine,
And I plucked you out of her warm, soft hair,
As her stately pride stood trembling there,
And I felt in the dark for her lips to kiss,
And I pressed them close to my own like this,
And I held her cheek to my own cheek—­so,
              Jacqueminot!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Don’t You Wish You Knew!

Glancing in the moonlight,
  Gliding in the dark,
Down the river slowly,
  Floats our dainty bark. 
Sweetly sound two voices,
  Shadows hide the view;
Heard the rushes something? 
  Don’t you wish you knew!

Gently sigh the zephyrs,
  Shine the stars above,
Eyes of brighter lustre
  Speak of lasting love. 
Quickly pass the hours,
  Glides the bark canoe;
Heard the rushes something? 
  Don’t you wish you knew!

A.H.B.
Brunonian.

Prom-Roses.

Only a bunch of roses fair,
  A duster of pink and white,
Roses that nod to the music low,
  The flowers she wore that night.

She tenderly lifts each drooping head
  That gracefully tosses there,
And the dainty flowers, nestling close,
  Smile back at the maiden fair.

“How beautiful they are,” she said,
  As she pressed them to her cheek,
“Why, the opened petals almost seem
  As if they were trying to speak.”

I wonder why she cannot hear
  The song that the flowers sing,
I wonder if she knows or cares
  For the message the roses bring.

JAMES P. SAWYER.
Yale Record.

A Lyric.

Beneath the lilac-tree,
  With its breathing blooms of white,
You waved a parting kiss to me
  In the deepening amber light.

Your face is always near,
  Your tender eyes of brown. 
I see your form in dreams; I hear
  The whisper of your gown.

Once more the lilac-tree
  With twilight dew is wet;
But, oh, I would that you might be
  Alive to love me yet.

EDWARD M. HULME.
The Palo Alto.

Pallas

You say there’s a sameness in my style,
  You long for the savor of something new,
You tell me that love is not worth while,
  You wish for verse that is strong and true. 
  Well, I will leave the choice to you—­
Prose or poetry, short or long,
  Only we’ll let this be the cue—­
Love is excluded from the song.

I’ll sing of some old cathedral pile,
  Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew,
The sunlight illumines nave and aisle,
  And peace seems thrilling us through and through. 
  No? you don’t think that will do? 
How would you like a busy throng,
  A battle, Elizabeth’s retinue? 
But love is excluded from the song.