The pretty wee stars kept peeping about,

And even peep'd in through our prison bars,

As she gravely said, 'Who ever went out

To gather a rose by the light of stars?'

My heart beat fast at the beautiful phrase;

She had not intended it, I suppose,

But I felt I could love her all my days,

If under the stars I might pluck one rose!

Pleading my cause in so ardent a way,

Almost evoking an answering glow,

Crying, 'You once were as young and as gay'—

Then, she smil'd a little and let me go.

'Twas pleasure enough to be out of doors;

I look'd at the stars and I felt content:

But it never rains, you know, but it pours,

And the path that I had to go—I went!

Playing with fancies, in fanciful play,

'If I want a rose,' I demurely said,

'I must look for an omen to point the way,

And I must look for it over my head.'

So I found a star that shone in the sky,

And mark'd how it glitter'd down on a tree,

And felt—but I swear that I know not why—

There grow the roses intended for me!

And as I approach the shadowy boughs

That are spreading out over earth and air,

A gay little miracle fate allows,

And the star appears to be sparkling there!

Gladly I ran o'er the daisy-clad plain,

Led by the shimmering light of the star,

And under the tree I found—Harry Vane

Lying, and smoking a 'mild cigar!'

I started astonish'd—he stood upright,

And said, in a voice persuasively kind,

'Don't you know that I come here every night,

To see your shadow flit by on the blind?'

I look'd where he pointed, as if 'twas I

Could see my own phantom flicker and pass,—

And Aunt Bridget's shadow mov'd solemnly by,

Over the canvas that hangs by the glass!

Oh, how could we help it?—we laugh'd aloud

(Birds never cease their sweet voices in spring;

And I think in youth little laughters crowd

And spring to our lips at everything!)

In laughter we lost all sense of surprise;

It seem'd only natural we should meet;

And a star shot flaming across the skies,

And a little glow-worm gleam'd at my feet.

And a distant bell swung its solemn chime,

That seem'd to me like the voice of a star;

And I think, through a century of time,

I shall always believe that such things are.

And then—it was then—he spoke, and I heard;

And the moon rose up, and the stars grew dim,

And all of a sudden the nightingale-bird

Triumphantly chanted her jubilant hymn.

What are you singing about, little birds,

Twittering loudly in lime-tree and oak?

Telling each other the wonderful words

On a sweet May evening a lover spoke?

Butterflies, floating away from the trees,

With blossom-like wings of delicate dye,

You are bearing tidings certain to please,

Scatter them freely, but do not ask why.

Two lovers stood 'neath a star-lighted sky,

Half fearfully touching enchanted ground:

One lover was Harry, and one was I,

And the world went merrily round and round.

Souls rushing together from distant parts,

Vows utter'd that cannot be ever undone;

A minute ago two lives and two hearts,

Through time and eternity now but one.

O foolish butterflies! chattering birds!

Instinct in vain with humanity strives;

You can't understand the wonderful words

Or magical kisses that changed two lives!

What is Nature made for? is it for us

The beautiful world is burnish'd and blent?

If we had not eyes, would blossoms shine thus?

If we had not nostrils, would they have scent?

I heard a philosopher say—in isles

Surrounded by ocean, apart, alone,

With no living creature to reckon miles,

Wherein life had never been born or known,

That the clouds with electric flash may meet,

And thunder may rattle its dreadful breath,

Yet never a sound break the rest complete,

Or the silence of this eternal death;

That the fierce storm-wind may bluster and blow,

Tearing the trees from the root-broken ground,

Or the wild sea-surf may leap and may flow

In solemn silence with never a sound.

For sound is but the vibrations of air

That strike on the drum of the living ear;

So if never a living ear is there,

There is nothing to strike and nothing to hear.

Though the vibrations move on, and live,

And thus the law of their being obey,

'Tis the ear produces the sound they give—

That's what I heard a philosopher say.

So if thunder, roll'd through quivering air,

With that awful silence reigning around,

And you or I suddenly landed there,

All Nature would break at once into sound.

It seems very strange and eerie, you know;

I don't understand how it is—do you?

But a philosopher said it, so

I really suppose that it must be true.

And is not there something in human hearts

(Mountains, you know, must spring out of the flat)

That at Love's light touch into music starts?

Ah, what would philosophers say to that?

There never was summer so bright as this,

And the world will always be burnished thus;

For if Love the magical painter is,

He for ever will paint the same for us.

'Tis a light within that illumes the land;

And free as the birds from sorrow or strife,

Very close together, and hand in hand,

We shall walk on through unlimited life.

'Ah, Harry!' I cried, 'I shall lean on you!

'Tis the purest joy to look up so high;

You will teach me all that I ought to do;

On your noble strength can my steps rely.

I hope that you know I am very weak,

Only a poor little thing at the best;

But children can love before they can speak,

And I hope that love will make up the rest.'

Oh beautiful pathway, untouched by care;

Oh you scattered roses on which we tread;

You lead to a church with its holy prayer,

And its Heaven-blessing over us shed!