Colombe’s Birthday.

          This woman ...
    ...  Being true, devoted, constant—­she
    Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain
    And easy commonplace of character.

The Inn Album.

...  The good and tender heart,
Its girl’s trust and its woman’s constancy,
How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind,
How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free
As light where friends are—­how imbued with lore
The world most prizes, yet the simplest.
* * * * *
Herself creates
The want she means to satisfy.

A Blot on the ’Scutcheon.

Truly, the woman’s way
High to lift heart up.

Agamemnon.

And Michal’s face
Still wears that quiet and peculiar light
Like the dim circlet floating ’round a pearl.
* * * * *
And yet her calm sweet countenance,
Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing
Alone ... bird-like,
Not dreaming you were near.—­Her carols dropt
In flakes through that old leafy bower.

Paracelsus.

...  Such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—­
On her neck the small face buoyant like a bell-flower on its bed.

      Lyric.

  There’s a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer than the purest;
  And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest;
  And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre
  Hid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,
  Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble;
  Then her voice’s music ... call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble!

A Blot on the ’Scutcheon.

How twinks thine eye, my Love,
Blue as yon star-beam.

Ferishtah’s Fancies.

That flower-like love of hers;
* * * * *
She was true—­she only of them all! 
True to her eyes, ... those glorious eyes.
* * * * *
With truth and purity go other gifts. 
All gifts come clustering to that.

The Return of the Druses.

Good as beautiful is she,
With gifts that match her goodness, no faint flaw
I’ the white;—­she were the pearl you think you saw.

      Daniel Bartoli.

          Since beneath my roof
    Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven’s behoof
    I went forth every day, and all day long
    Worked for the world.  Look, how the laborer’s song
    Cheers him!  Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe
    Of laboring flesh and blood—­“She loves me so!”

      A Forgiveness.

    It is conspicuous in a woman’s nature
    Before its view to take a grace for granted: 
    Too trustful,—­on her boundary, usurpature
    Is swftly made;
    But swftly, too, decayed,
    The glory perishes by woman vaunted.