"And yet in me
A pulse is never stirred by what _they_ sing:
The reason I know not, unless it be
_Their_ idylls are not _Idylls of the King_.

"You smile: no doubt
You think I've never learned to criticise.
Perhaps so, yet I _feel_ that which I speak about.
And Enim is the last! Well, no more sighs;

"For spring is here:
I have no time to waste in dreamings vain.
_After our marriage_--nay, you need not sneer--
We will read all the idylls through again."

"So shall it be
So long as lives the love which poets sing.
The harp is still, yet is begun for thee
A lifelong dream--the idyll of _thy_ king."

F.F. ELMS.

* * * * *




OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.