While the spring's breath thrills in the air of May,
While life seems ever to be defying
The flight of time and the thought of dying,
And the great world runs on its careless way.

Yet one dear thought in my heart is resting
As I face the path I must tread ere long,
When wearied with life's unending questing,
Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting,
I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.

That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling,
Your helping hand and your watchful eye,
My life with your tender love fulfilling.
I know but this, and am strangely willing
To learn your love and in learning--die.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator_.


~Safe.~

When I picked up her glove
I let Fate decide it.
So great was my love,
When I picked up her glove;
'Twas as soft as a dove
_And her hand was inside it._
When I picked up her glove