Must he toil beneath the sun

Who has nothing else to do?

What's the use of such a one?

I know not—pray do you?

Skies are not aflame for him;

He converses not with elves;

Primroses on river's brim

Can be nothing but themselves.

Need he interfere with me,

Who care only to be blest?

Go thy way, unhappy bee,

Leave a butterfly at rest.

Butterflies with painted wings

Are a part of Nature's plan;

Is not every bird that sings,

Wiser than a busy man?

Harry's rich tenor delighteth my ears

Oft as I hear it; 'tis ever the same;

Brings to my eyes a soft soupçon of tears,

Sends from my heart little thrills through my frame.

When the sea

Speaks to me,

Sure I may reply to it;

When the skies

Catch my eyes,

I must smile a little bit.

When the trees

Try to please

With their buds and blossoms new,

Shall I dare

Not to care

For a world so bright and true?

Earth and sky,

Tell me why

Sorrow ever comes between?

Is it you,

Heaven blue?

Is it you, my earth so green?

Is it there

In the air

That you neither of you touch?

Is the wind

So unkind

When I love its kiss so much?

Let it be

Earth or sea,

Skies or breezes as they move,

Earth is sweet

'Neath my feet,

Heaven sweeter yet above;

And the air

Ev'rywhere

Is the sweetest of the three;

I will take,

For their sake,

Anything they bring to me!

Men flocking round me, I find I'm admir'd;

Praise is as sweet as a gratified whim;

When a girl pleases she never feels tir'd—

Harry smiles at me, and I smile at him.

Through the open doors of a crystal dome

Sweet is the scent of the tropical flowers,

The splendid exiles who, banish'd from home,

Are sparkling and shining to gladden ours.

Figures appearing 'mid blossom and fruit,

In an airy, fairy, magical way;

Their lips keep moving altho' they are mute

For ears too distant to hear what they say.

From a lily bud can a voice be sent?—

'Let us hope the Captain's wild oats are sown;

A pretty young wife should make him content'—

Only a word in a soft-spoken tone!

Moving serenely 'mid beauty and song,

Am not I born for the glittering throng?

Treading on roses with delicate feet,

Is not a life a perpetual treat?

Can we be more than delighted and blest?

Pleasure is beautiful—is it the best?

Highest and best that our nature can know?

Answer my heart—and my heart answers No.

And my heart answers, 'more beautiful yet

Life is for those who leave Home with regret,

And greet it again as the sailor greets shore,

Gaily returning to life gone before.'

Thus from the banquet two lovers depart,

Owning thy truth, lovely voice of my heart;

Seeking a home that, whatever befall,

Is brighter and sweeter and dearer than all;

Better than all that the world can decree,

For happy young creatures like Harry and me!

Self-ordained critics, we sit at our ease,

Life spread before us to judge as we please;

Harry in quite a ridiculous way

Prates about wine, like a swell in a play;

Next, the made dishes proceeding to scan,

With wisdom becoming a greedy old man;

Looking so charmingly youthful and gay,

I laugh in his face at his airs of gourmet;

Admitting myself but three things to be nice—

Champagne, lobster salad, and strawberry ice.

Then pass the people in sparkling review;

I ask fifty questions beginning with Who?

Midnight approaches—a sense of repose

Floating about me, my eyelids half close;

Rising, I languidly say, 'By the bye,

Who is the Captain?' he laughs in reply,

Stands up in front of me, just face to face,

Makes me a bow with an air and a grace:

'The Captain this moment before you' you see—

That's my nickname in the country,' says he.

Pleasantly sleepy I felt ere he spake,

Now I am thoroughly widely awake;

A shock passes through me of horrid surprise,

I turn upon Harry my wondering eyes,

Catching at hopes, as the drowning at straws,

I cry, as the truth for a moment withdraws,

'You're quizzing me, Harry—that's what you're at,

It cannot be you that they speak of like that!'

Then he insists on my telling, displeas'd

At any concealment, What have I heard?

Worried and wearied, bewilder'd and teaz'd,

I blurt it out and repeat every word!

Harry regards me with almost a stare—

Pulls his moustache with a sort of amaze—

Passes his hand through his clustering hair

And—bursts out laughing, as if it was praise!

There is nothing so sweet or full of grace

(Can one who has seen it ever forget?)

As the smile that comes over Harry's face;

It is Heaven on earth—and yet—and yet—

I feel a