Glad Yalobusha’s rippling waves Repeat the darling name; The zephyr lost among the pines Dies murmuring the same; And when the hush of twilight steals Along the dreamy shore, The blissful silence to my heart Keeps singing “Jennie Moore.” ASHES. The fire of love is dead. No spark of living red The cold, gray ashes show. Be still! thy sighing breath-- Can it requicken death? Nay, hope not, dream not so. Ah, no, no, no! POSY. Laura is the first to seek Rime of March in wildwood bleak; First to mourn the aster’s death, Withered by November’s breath; Every glade and glen she knows Where the coy spring-beauty grows, Searches sunny slope and dell For the pearl or golden bell Of the quivering addertongue By the wandering zephyr swung; She and April, comrades boon, Hail the early-crowned puccoon; In the dingle lone she sees Tremulous anemones; From the breast of June she takes Columbines and plumy brakes; Not a daisy she’ll forget, Nor the humblest violet. Lilies proud, on stately stalks, Bow to greet her where she walks; Roses to her pathway lean, Queens saluting lovelier queen, Emulous to win her eyes, Rivals for self-sacrifice; Blesséd they whom she shall choose Though their fragrant lives they lose! Joyful the elected flower Which may triumph one brief hour, Mingled with the clustered few, Musical in form and hue! Thus sweet notes that singly please Join in chordant melodies! So do gathered fancies twine Graceful in the rhythmic line;-- Like a perfect lyric lay Laura’s exquisite bouquet. A SNOW BIRD. Beside the curbstone, in gusty whirl Of dust and snow-drift, stood a little girl; The piteous tears ran down her baby face; In dumb despair she stood, nor moved a pace, Her flying curls and fluttering short dress Pathetic signals of forlorn distress; Her fondling hands, all purple with the cold, Unto her breast a china doll did hold. “What is the matter, dear, why do you cry?” Her chill-cramped lips made dolefullest reply: “I am so cold, and I don’t know the way.” That was the most her helplessness could say. Ere long, before a laughing, ruddy flame, She smiled through tears and shyly told her name; I led the strayling to her mother’s door, And in she flew,--I never saw her more. Yet oftentimes, when Winter scoffs the sun, She is my bosom’s guest, that timid one; She steals into my heart and sobbing stands, A naked doll in her caressing hands; I see her shiver and I hear her say, “I am so cold, and I don’t know the way.” THE UPSET.