July.

Come, Love, into the woods with me!
Under the pine-trees sit thee down;
'Tis Summer-time, when trembling ferns
Bespeak the presence of sweet love,
Awakened by the whisp'ring breeze
That toys and plays coquettishly.
The pregnant earth is full of life;
The running brook will welcome thee,
And by its side we 'll rest awhile,
Reading this Book of Love, Dear Heart.
'Tis Heav'n on earth within the woods,
In July time, to wander thus,

Away from care, from others' touch,
Alone with thee and silence sweet,
A silence speaking more than words!

THE LOVER'S YEAR-BOOK OF

POETRY.

July First.

IF

TO MY WIFE.

F oft I string sweet thoughts on threads of rhyme, It is to fashion jewels for your heart,

Which you may wear when we are far apart, And fancy back again the golden time.

Along fair paths lit by the sun of May

Your memory may tread, and words that tell
In gentle cadence all you know so well
Will make your heart recall the love-lit day :

"This verse he wrote when first we met, and this Upon that wondrous evening when his love Burst almost sobbing from the soul that strove To find on earth the dream of heavenly bliss."

Thus unto you each word is glorified,

And every poem wears the aureole

Your loving heart and your responsive soul Give to the trifling rhymes that else had died.

4

Baby, or Bird.

July

Second.

NOW.

OUT of your whole life give but a moment!

All of your life that has gone before,

All to come after it,

so you ignore,

So you make perfect the present; condense,
In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment,
Thought and feeling and soul and sense,

Merged in a moment which gives me at last
You around me for once, you beneath me, above me,
Me, sure that, despite of time future, time past,
This tick of our life-time's one moment you love me!
How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet,
The moment eternal — just that and no more

When ecstasy's utmost we clutch at the core,

While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut, and lips meet!

July Third.

"BUT

is he

BABY, OR BIRD.

a Baby, or a Bird?”
Sometimes I fancy I do not know;
His voice is as sweet as I ever heard,
Far up where the light leaves blow.

Then his lovely eyes, I think, would see

As clear as a Bird's in the upper air; And his red-brown head, it seems to me, Would do for a Bird to bear.

On a Miniature of My Wife.

"If he were a Bird," you wisely say,

5

"He would have some wings to know him by." Ah, he has wings that are flying away

Forever; how fast they fly!

They are flying with him, by day, by night;
Under suns and stars, over storm and snow,
These fair, fine wings, that elude the sight,
In softest silence they go.

Come, kiss him as often as you may,

Hush, never talk of this time next year,

For the same small Bird that we pet to-day,
To-morrow is never here!

ON A MINIATURE OF MY WIFE.

July

Fourth.

7ES, there's the cheek, the placid eye,

The softly shaded hair,

The smile, the lip; yet tell me why
Seems something wanting there?
Ah, needless question! Wherefore ask?
How can the pencil trace

The fond affection, the calm Love
That sanctifies her face?

Oh, art is strong from time and death

The outward charm to win,

But vainly does it strive with life

To paint the heart within!