Was there ever a love like the love of my dream? Love, holy, unselfish, devoted and pure, Unfailing and sweet as the flow of a stream Whose source is a spring, that God made to endure. A love that is LOVE, with no blending of dross; Where soul, unto soul, giveth strength of its own— A love that knows never of languor or loss, Or silently grieves that its _spirit_ has flown. A love with its possibles nobly fulfilled, Where heart unto heart is e’er loyal and true, Where blessing for each, is thro’ kindness distilled— A rodomel never embittered with rue. A love that the angels, rejoicing to see, Would guard in life’s paths from the harpies that roam; Peace, Happiness, Charity,—loveliest three— Would make, for such lovers, a Heaven of Home. A Legend of the Lily. Abroad, June moon was brightly beaming In the depths of heaven’s blue, While the asphodels were bending With the clinging beads of dew, When the silver rays in silence, Glinting thro’ the swaying trees, Saw a modest flower turning To a roving, balmy breeze.— Heard the zephyr softly whisper: “Ah! my Lily, charming, sweet— Sure the god of love has led us In this bowery place to meet; Richest odors I will bring you From the islands of the sea; Aye, your beauty has enchained me— Will you give your heart to me?” With a touch exquisite, subtile, Then he turned to his, her face; In her blush of deeper crimson, That she faltered, he could trace. “I have sought you—will you trust me? Faithful as the stars I’ll be— With your fragrant breathings, answer, Will you give your love to me?” Frail the flower, tranced enraptured By the lover’s soft caress, To his tender wooing answered, With impulsive rashness,—“yes.” Then, exultant, zephyr gloried In the treasure he had won— Deftly stole her sparkling jewels, Sharing with the rising sun. Brushed the spangles from her tresses With his playful finger tips, Bolder grew with his caresses— Gathering sweetness from her lips; Robbed her beauty of the freshness That was hers in early morn— Left her ’neath the sun of noonday, Burning like the gaze of scorn. Drooping as in heat of censure Evening found her in the dust, Lifted her with tearful pity From the blight of trampled trust; But the tender flush of loving From her face was blanched and gone, Yet a beauty, born of trial, Met the radiant glow of dawn. Now for her the moon is shining With a calm and holy light; Dew-like gems of rarest beauty Sparkles on her brow at night; With her white face turned toward heaven In her vestal robe she stands, As a priestess, at an altar, Lifting consecrated hands.