Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue,
Mournful or merry, right or wrong.
Subjects, you'll find, are not so few,
But love is excluded from the song.

Oh! for a song of yourself you sue!
Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong.
Sing of your eyes and your smile and--Pooh!
Love is excluded from the song.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._


~How I Love Her.~

Dear, I'll tell you how I love you--
Not by singing sweetly of you--
Oh, I love you far too much,
For the daintiest rhyme's light touch;
No, it needs no language signs,
It's written here between the lines,
How I love you! You will see
If you look there, loving me.

C.B. NEWTON.
_Nassau Literary Monthly._


~Polly.~