_
When our lives were in their springtime and our souls were in the bud,
While the watchful world was silent, heeding not such childish love,
I poured forth for thee my heart-thoughts in a sweet, unthinking flood,
Like a bird that carols freely in the grove.

And thou heardst them, half unconscious of the import that they bore,
Till the years unlocked the chambers of thy stainless, maiden heart
And thou badest my songs be silent. They are silent evermore,
But their echoes from my soul will not depart.

Yet the love songs that I lilted in those by-gone childhood days,
Surely, them thou wilt not silence, let them be a memory dear
Of the happy days of childhood when unchecked I sang thy praise,
While with thee I looked to heaven and deemed it here.
_




_THREE SONNETS._


THE MAIDEN.

The melody of birds is in her voice.
The lake is not more crystal than her eyes,
In whose brown depths her soul still sleeping lies.
With her soft curls the passionate zephyr toys,
And whispers in her ear of coming joys.