Could I paint Her picture then! paint her voluptuous lip, With its sweet curl of pride; the shaded eye In its dark liquid lustre; the fair brow With its light wandering veins, and raven braid Contrasting with its whiteness; the faint blush Upon her cheek, of maiden modesty, And the rich outline, melting into grace, Of her unmatched proportions; over all, Could I but make the picture eloquent With the deep, reedy music of her tone, Or lend to you the golden leaf which bears The sketch within my memory, you would know How fairer than the summer, or the spring, Should the October season seem to me. BOYHOOD. ‘I was a boy; and she was fair As you are when you smile, And her voice came forth like the summer air, With a tone that did beguile, And her two blue eyes refreshing were As two trees on an Indian isle.’ Etonian. I love fresh feelings--it is so unlike This olden world to meet them; and they come Upon my heart like music so, or like Some passage that is new in poetry. I walked one eve by moonlight. I had seen Some fourteen summers, and my cyphering Was all the thought I had; and as the world Had come to me so pleasantly, I took A wayward temper for my manual, And kept it to the letter. It was now A mellow eve of summer, and a girl, Who laughed forever like the birds and had Long eyelashes and very dangerous eyes, Was leaning on my arm. I did not know I was in love; but it seemed natural To think of all she said, and she’d a way Of coming to one’s dreams; and then her name Was always in the lesson like a word, And half the time I studied it. This eve We had been very gay, and I had watched The deep, half shaded dimple in her cheek, Till I forgot to answer; and as she Of too much mirth grew serious, I began To act the lover playfully. My cap Was carelessly thrown back, and on my cheek I shook some dew for tears, and as she curled Her lip in mimic scorn, I knelt to her, And begged for her sweet favor, touchingly. She answered coldly first, and then relented, As wiser maids have done; but with a look Of something so like earnest, that I did Her hand some violence; and then she blushed And said I must not tell, but ladies’ lips, By some, were counted prettier. The moon Shone just as soberly, and I went home And kept the secret; but I do not know That she would let me touch the seal again. NIGHT SKETCHES.