“Reason nor rhyme Is in the chime! It can’t be five; I’ve scarce had time To beg two kisses!” BOTH. “Early or late, When lovers wait, And Love’s watch gains, if Time a gait So snail-like chooses, Why should his feet Become more fleet Than cowards' are, when lovers meet And Love’s watch loses?” ELEANOR MAKES MACAROONS. Light of triumph in her eyes, Eleanor her apron ties; As she pushes back her sleeves, High resolve her bosom heaves. Hasten, cook! impel the fire To the pace of her desire; As you hope to save your soul, Bring a virgin casserole, Brightest bring of silver spoons,-- Eleanor makes macaroons! Almond-blossoms, now adance In the smile of Southern France, Leave your sport with sun and breeze, Think of duty, not of ease; Fashion, ’neath their jerkins brown, Kernels white as thistle-down, Tiny cheeses made with cream From the Galaxy’s mid-stream, Blanched in light of honeymoons,-- Eleanor makes macaroons! Now for sugar,--nay, our plan Tolerates no work of man. Hurry, then, ye golden bees; Fetch your clearest honey, please, Garnered on a Yorkshire moor, While the last larks sing and soar, From the heather-blossoms sweet Where sea-breeze and sunshine meet, And the Augusts mask as Junes,-- Eleanor makes macaroons! Next the pestle and mortar find, Pure rock-crystal,--these to grind Into paste more smooth than silk, Whiter than the milkweed’s milk: Spread it on a rose-leaf, thus, Cate to please Theocritus; Then the fire with spices swell, While, for her completer spell, Mystic canticles she croons,-- Eleanor makes macaroons! Perfect! and all this to waste On a graybeard’s palsied taste! Poets so their verses write, Heap them full of life and light, And then fling them to the rude Mumbling of the multitude. Not so dire her fate as theirs, Since her friend this gift declares Choicest of his birthday boons,-- Eleanor’s dear macaroons! _February 22, 1884._ TELEPATHY. “And how could you dream of meeting?” Nay, how can you ask me, sweet? All day my pulse had been beating The tune of your coming feet. And as nearer and ever nearer I felt the throb of your tread, To be in the world grew dearer, And my blood ran rosier red. Love called, and I could not linger, But sought the forbidden tryst, As music follows the finger Of the dreaming lutanist. And though you had said it and said it, “We must not be happy to-day,” Was I not wiser to credit The fire in my feet than your Nay? SCHERZO. When the down is on the chin And the gold-gleam in the hair, When the birds their sweethearts win And champagne is in the air, Love is here, and Love is there, Love is welcome everywhere. Summer’s cheek too soon turns thin, Days grow briefer, sunshine rare; Autumn from his cannekin Blows the froth to chase Despair: Love is met with frosty stare, Cannot house ’neath branches bare.