When hearts are trumps

Excerpt

The Perfect Face.

The Graces, on a summer day,

Grew serious for a moment; yea,

They thought in rivalry to trace

The outline of a perfect face.

Each used a rosebud for a brush,

And, while it glowed with sunset's blush,

Each painted on the evening sky,

And each a star used for the eye.

They finished. Each a curtaining cloud

Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud:

"Behold, we three have drawn the same,

From the same model!" Ah, her name?

I know. I saw the pictures grow.

I saw them falter, fade, and go.

I know the model. Oft she lures

My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.

The notes still float upon the air,

Just as they did that night.

I see the old piano there,—

Oh, that again I might!

Her young voice haunts my eager ear;

Her hair in the candle-light

Still seems an aureole,—a tear

Is my spectroscope to-night.

I hear her trembling tell me "No,"

And I know that she answered right

But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though

She be wed she will dream to-night.

The Kiss

Over the green fields, over the snow,

Something I send thee, something I throw.

No one can guess it; no one can know.

Light as a feather, quick as the eye;

Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky;

Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.

Ah, you have caught it, love! How do I know?

Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago.

Lovers learn all of them. Smile not,—'tis so.

Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,

She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,

Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.

Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,

So fraught is she with innocent delight,

She feels the tender thrill of his embrace

Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;

Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.

Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;

She turns from it with petulant disdain,

And tries to read the future,—but in vain.

Blank are its pages from the first to last.

She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room

Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.

A Problem.

Give you a problem for your midnight toil,—

One you can study till your hair is white

And never solve and never guess aright,

Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?

O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.

Just take one weakling little woman's heart.

Prepare your patience, furbish up your art.

How now? Did I not see you then recoil?

Tell me how many times it has known pain;

Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;

Tell me when it is modest, when 'tis vain;

Tell me when it is wrong and when 'tis right:

But tell me this, all other things above,—

Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls "Love"?

A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,

Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,

When love receives a message that the coy

Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak

From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak

That loses in one avalanche its cloy

Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ

Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak

Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,—

Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure

As the poor Alpine hamlet's; and no art

Can hide my agony, no herb can cure

My wound....