Upon the star-pranked universal vine,
Hast naught for me? 
To thee
Come I, a poet, hereward haply blown,
From out another worldflower lately flown. 
Wilt ask, What profit e’er a poet brings?
He beareth starry stuff about his wings
To pollen thee and sting thee fertile:  nay,
If still thou narrow thy contracted way,
—­Worldflower, if thou refuse me—­
—­Worldflower, if thou abuse me,
And hoist thy stamen’s spear-point high
To wound my wing and mar mine eye—­
Natheless I’ll drive me to thy deepest sweet,
Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beat
From me to thee, for oft these pollens be
Fine dust from wars that poets wage for thee. 
But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shine
Upon the universal jessamine,
Prithee abuse me not,
Prithee refuse me not;
Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to me
Hid in thy nectary!”
And as I sank into a suaver dream
The pleading bee-song’s burthen sole did seem,
“Hast ne’er a honey-drop of love for me
In thy huge nectary?”

SIDNEY LANIER.

“OUR JOOK.”

“Koenigin,” said I, as I poked the fire, “what do you think of the people in the house?”

On second thoughts it was not “Koenigin” that I said, for it was only that night that she received the title.  It is of no consequence what I did call her, however, for from that time she was never anything but Koenigin to me.

We began to “talk things over,” as we had a way of doing; and very good fun it was and quite harmless, provided the ventilator was not open.  That had happened once or twice, and got us into quite serious scrapes.  People have such an utterly irrational objection to your amusing yourself in the most innocent way at what they consider their expense.

Koenigin and I had come to the boarding-house that very day.  We were by ourselves, for our male protectors were off “a-hunting the wild deer and following the roe”—­or its Florida equivalent, whatever that may be—­and we did not fancy staying at a hotel under the circumstances.  Now, we had taken our observations, and were prepared to pronounce our opinions on our fellow-boarders.  One after another was canvassed and dismissed.  Mr. A. had eccentric table-manners; Miss B. wriggled and squirmed when she talked; Mrs. C. was much too lavish of inappropriate epithets; Mr. X.’s conversation, on the contrary, was quite bald and bare from the utter lack of those parts of speech; Miss Y. had a nice face, and Mrs. Z. a pretty hand.

Just here Koenigin suddenly burst out laughing.  “Really,” she said, “we go about the world criticising people as if we were King Solomon and the queen of Sheba.”

“‘Die Koenigin von Seba,’” said I.  “That, I suppose, is you and our motto should be, ‘Wir sind das Volk und die Weisheit stirbt mit uns.’”

I was not at all sure of the accuracy of my translation, but its appropriateness was unquestionable.