The Bride.

Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,
She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,
Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.
Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,
So fraught is she with innocent delight,
She feels the tender thrill of his embrace
Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;
Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.

Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;
She turns from it with petulant disdain,
And tries to read the future,--but in vain.
Blank are its pages from the first to last.
She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room
Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.




A Problem.

Give you a problem for your midnight toil,--
One you can study till your hair is white
And never solve and never guess aright,
Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?
O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.
Just take one weakling little woman's heart.