An envious woman’s whispered word,
A slander born of a cruel smile,
The repetition of something heard,
The imputation of something vile,

Or possibly even a fancied slight
For a feast declined, or a call delayed,
Or jealousy caused by petty spite,
Or the wish for a higher social grade,—­

’Tis one, or all of these combined,
That saps the love of our dearest friends,
And slowly poisons heart and mind,
Till the joy of generous friendship ends.

Last night they were in a cordial mood,
To-day they suddenly seem estranged! 
Shall we, then, grieve and sadly brood
O’er the unknown cause that has made them changed?

Ask once, that they make the matter clear,
But ask no more, if the lesson fail;
Let changelings go, however dear,
And shed no tears for a love so frail.

Be not the slave of a friend’s migraine,
Nor let him play, now hot, now cold;
The master of thyself remain,
And the key of thine inmost heart withhold!

For they who weep and sue and plead,
Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove,
And the friends with “moods” are the friends who need
To learn that they are not worth our love.

TO MY DEAD DOG

    All is noiseless;
    Cold and voiceless
Lies the form I’ve oft caressed;
Heedless now of blame or praises,
’Neath the sunshine and the daisies
Dear, old Leo lies at rest.

    Eager greeting,
    Joy at meeting,
Watching for my step to come,
Grief at briefest separation,
Sorrow without affectation,—­
These are over,—­he is dumb!

    Loyal ever,
    Treacherous never,
Lifelong love he well expressed;
Ah! may we deserve like praises
When beneath the sun-kissed daisies
We, like Leo, lie at rest!

TO-DAY

“The sun will set at day’s decline”;
    Qu’importe? 
Quaff off meanwhile life’s sparkling wine! 
Of what avail are mournful fears,
Foreboding sighs and idle tears,
They hinder not the hurrying years;
      Buvons!

“This fleeting hour will soon be past”;
    Qu’importe? 
Enrich its moments while they last! 
To-day is ours; be ours its joy! 
Let not to-morrow’s cares annoy! 
Enough the present to employ;
      Vivons!

“These pleasures will not come again”;
    Qu’importe? 
Enjoy their keenest transport then! 
If but of these we are secure,
Be of their sweetness doubly sure,
That long their memory may endure! 
      Rions!

“With time love’s ardor always cools”;
    Qu’importe? 
Leave that lugubrious chant to fools! 
Must doubt destroy our present bliss? 
Shall we through fear love’s rapture miss,
Or lose the honey of its kiss? 
      Aimons!

“The sun will set at day’s decline”;
    Qu’importe? 
Will not the eternal stars still shine? 
So even in life’s darkest night
A thousand quenchless suns are bright,—­
Blest souvenirs of past delight;
      Allons!