Not your sweet, red lips, dear,
Tremulous with sighs,
Lest their passion dull love's rapture;
Kiss me with your eyes.

Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear,
At the least touch flies,
Even lips may brush to dimness;
Kiss me with your eyes.

Pain within the bliss, dear,
Of those soft curves lies;
Only love the soul's light carries;
Kiss me with your eyes.

MAUD THOMPSON.
_Wellesley Magazine._


~A Portrait.~

A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed;
A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown,
Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown
Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast
A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest
Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown
Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown
Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.