(A Fragment)>/i> What, have I waked again? I never… To see the rosy dawn, or ev’n this… Dull, solemn stillness, ere the da… The lamp burns low; low burns the…

Last June I saw your face three t… Three times I touched your hand; Now, as before, May month is o’er… And June is in the land. O many Junes shall come and go,

Ere all the world had grown so dre… When I was young and you were her… ‘Mid summer roses in summer weathe… What pleasant times we’ve had toge… We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet…

Where drowsy sound of college-chim… Across the air is blown, And drowsy fragrance of the limes, I lie and dream alone. A dazzling radiance reigns o’er al…

Back to the mystic shore beyond th… The mystic craft has sped, and lef… Ah, nevermore may she behold his f… Nor touch his hand, nor hear his v… With hidden front she crouches; al…

I lounge in the doorway and lan… While Tom, Dick and Harry are da… My spirit rises to the music’s bea… There is a leaden fiend lurks in m… To move unto your motion, Love, w…

What does youth know of love? Little enough, I trow! He plucks the myrtle for his brow, For his forehead the rose. Nay, but of love

THIS is the end of him, here he… The dust in his throat, the worm i… The mould in his mouth, the turf o… This is the end of him, this is be… He will never lie on his couch awa…

UP those Museum steps you came, And straightway all my blood was f… O Lallie, Lallie! The world (I had been feeling low… In one short moment’s space did gr…

The lion remembers the forest, The lion in chains; To the bird that is captive a visi… Of woodland remains. One strains with his strength at t…

To J. De P. Deep in the grass outstretched I… Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still:

At last; so this is you, my dear! How should I guess to find you he… So long, so long, I sought in vai… In many cities, many lands, With straining eyes and groping ha…

Believe me, this was true last nig… Tho’ it is false to-day. —A.M.F. Robinson. A fair dream to my chamber flew: Such a crowd of folk that stirred,

The sky is silver-grey; the long Slow waves caress the shore.- On such a day as this I have been… Who shall be glad no more.

What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman’s face? The London trees are dusty-brown