drooping head
  That gracefully tosses there,
And the dainty flowers, nestling close,
  Smile back at the maiden fair.

"How beautiful they are," she said,
  As she pressed them to her cheek,
"Why, the opened petals almost seem
  As if they were trying to speak."

I wonder why she cannot hear
  The song that the flowers sing,
I wonder if she knows or cares
  For the message the roses bring.

JAMES P. SAWYER. Yale Record.

~A Lyric.~

Beneath the lilac-tree,
  With its breathing blooms of white,
You waved a parting kiss to me
  In the deepening amber light.

Your face is always near,
  Your tender eyes of brown.
I see your form in dreams; I hear
  The whisper of your gown.

Once more the lilac-tree
  With twilight dew is wet;
But, oh, I would that you might be
  Alive to love me yet.

EDWARD M. HULME. The Palo Alto.

Pallas

You say there's a sameness in my style,
  You long for the savor of something new,
You tell me that love is not worth while,
  You wish for verse that is strong and true.
  Well, I will leave the choice to you—
Prose or poetry, short or long,
  Only we'll let this be the cue—
Love is excluded from the song.

I'll sing of some old cathedral pile,
  Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew,
The sunlight illumines nave and aisle,
  And peace seems thrilling us through and through.
  No? you don't think that will do?
How would you like a busy throng,
  A battle, Elizabeth's retinue?
But love is excluded from the song.

A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle,
  The hush of the forest, the ocean blue,
A lament for all that is false and vile,
  A paean for all that is good and true.
  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.~

She fluttered gaily down the hill—
  That merry, dimpled lass—
She hurried singing down the hill,
And then she loitered by the mill,
  And saw the bubbles pass,
  Made double in the glass
Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.

She heard a sparrow pertly cry,
  She smelt the new-mown hay,
She felt the sunshine in the sky,
As lightly she went skipping by,
  A-down the sunny way—
  'Twas like a holiday,
The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.

And Cupid's wings were on her feet,
  As nimbly she ran down;
And Cupid's wings were on her feet:
For pretty Polly went to meet
  Her lover in the town.
  She wore that lilac gown
That made him say—oh, nothing to repeat!

CHARLES W. SHOPE. Harvard Advocate.

~Under the Rose.~

Last night the blush rose clustered,—
  To-day the rough wind blows
In showers her broken petals;
  Last night,—yet no one knows,—
I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart,
          Under the rose!

Last night my fond hope blossomed,—
  To-day December snows
Drift deep and cold above it;
  To-day,—ah! no one knows,—
My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart,
          Under the rose!

CATHERINE Y. GLEN. Mount Holyoke.

[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]

~A Bit of Human Nature.~

'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes,
  So long-lashed, soft, and brown,
Half hiding the light that in them lies,
  As dreamily looking down.

'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip,
  Half full, half clear defined,
And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip,
  And a figure half reclined.

'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair,
  With sunlight sifted through,
And a truant curl just here and there,
  And a knot of ribbon blue.

'Tis only the wave of a feather fan,
  That ruffles the creamy lace,
Loose gathered about the bosom fair,
  By rhinestones held in place.

'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe,
  With the glimpse of a color above—
A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue,
  The shade that lovers love.

'Tis only a woman—a woman, that's all,
  And, as only a woman can,
Bringing a heart to her beck and call
  By waving her feather fan.

'Tis only a woman, and I—'twere best
  To forget that waving fan.
She only a woman—you know the rest?
  But I am only a man.

CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. Virginia University Magazine.

~Her Little Glove.~

Her little glove, I dare aver,
Would set your pulses all astir;
  It hides a something safe from sight
  So soft and warm, so small and white,
A cynic would turn flatterer!

Could Pegasus have better spur?
'Twould almost cause a saint to err—
  A Puritan to grow polite—
        Her little glove.

'Twill satisfy a connoisseur,
This dainty thing of lavender;
  And when it clasps her fingers tight
  I think—I wonder if it's right—
That somehow—well—I wish I were
      Her little glove.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Verse.

~Skating Hath Charms.~

So cold was the night,
  And her cheeks were cold, too,
Though it wasn't quite right,
So cold was the night,
And so sad was her plight,
  That I—well, wouldn't you?
So cold was the night,
  And her cheeks were cold, too.

H.H. Amherst Literary Monthly.

~The Portrait.~

Pearls and patches, powder and paint,
  This was her grandmother years ago.
Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,
Features just lacking the prim of the saint,
  From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;
  High-heeled slippers and satin bow,
Red lips mocking the heart's constraint,
Free from passion, devoid of taint—
  This was her grandmother years ago.

Straight and slender, gallant and tall.
  Ah, how he