She is wonderfully observing. When she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her “bang” is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic; to her friend who’s much admired, She is often heard remarking: “Dear, you look so _worn_ and tired!” And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride, And she said: “Oh, how becoming!” and then softly added, “It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.” Then she said: “If you had heard me yestereve, I’m sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend.” And she left me with a feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’t been for her. Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day; And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet. She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust; Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust. Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin. BREAKING THE DAY IN TWO. When from dawn till noon seems one long day, And from noon till night another, Oh, then should a little boy come from play, And creep into the arms of his mother. Snugly creep and fall asleep, O come, my baby, do; Creep into my lap, and with a nap, We’ll break the day in two. When the shadows slant for afternoon, When the midday meal is over; When the winds have sung themselves into a swoon, And the bees drone in the clover. Then hie to me, hie, for a lullaby-- Come, my baby, do; Creep into my lap, and with a nap We’ll break the day in two. We’ll break it in two with a crooning song, With a soft and soothing number; For the day has no right to be so long And keep my baby from slumber. Then rock-a-by, rock, may white dreams flock Like angels over you; Baby’s gone, and the deed is done We’ve broken the day in two. THE RAPE OF THE MIST. High o’er the clouds a Sunbeam shone, And far down under him, With a subtle grace that was all her own, The Mist gleamed, fair and dim. He looked at her with his burning eyes And longed to fall at her feet; Of all sweet things there under the skies, He thought her the thing most sweet. He had wooed oft, as a sunbeam may, Wave, and blossom, and flower; But never before had he felt the sway Of a great love’s mighty power. Tall cloud-mountains and vast space-seas, Wind, and tempest, and fire-- What are obstacles such as these To a heart that is filled with desire?