Little is remembered of these homely methods for knowing “all about sweethearts,” and the custom would scarcely have reached the greater number of readers, if one of the sweetest of our modern poets had not preserved its recollection in a delightful poem. Some stanzas are culled from it, with the hope that they may be read by a few to whom the poetry of Keats is unknown, and awaken a desire for further acquaintance with his beauties:-- _The Eve of St. Agnes._ St. Agnes’ Eve? Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold. * * * * * They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey’d middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. * * * * * Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline * * * * * Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She clos’d the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. A casement high and triple arch’d there was, All garlanded with carven imag’ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth’s deep damask’d wings; And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, with dim emblazonings, A shielded ’scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings, Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven’s grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for Heaven:-- * * * * *