Upon her breast red rosebuds fall and rise,
Kissing her snowy throat, and, lover-wise,
Breathing forth sweetness till the fragrance cloys.

Sometimes she thinks of love, but, oftener yet,
Wooing but wearies her, and love's warm phrase
Repels and frightens her. Then, like the sun
At misty dawn, amid the fear and fret
There rises in her heart at last some One,
And all save love is banished by his rays.


THE WIFE.

There stands a cottage by a river side,
With rustic benches sloping eaves beneath,
Amid a scene of mountain, stream and heath.
A dainty garden, watered by the tide,
On whose calm breast the queenly lilies ride,
Is bright with many a purple pansy wreath,
While here and there forbidden lion's teeth
Uprear their golden crowns with stubborn pride.

See! there she leans upon the little gate,
Unchanged, save that her curls, once flowing free,
Are closely coiled upon her shapely head,
And that her eyes look forth more thoughtfully.
Hark to her sigh! "Why tarries he so late?"
But mark her smile! She hears his well-known tread.