Laura, my darling, our sail down the stream Of Youth’s summers and winters has been like a dream; Years have but rounded your womanly grace, And added their spell to the light of your face; Your soul is the same as though part were not given To the two, like yourself, sent to bless me from heaven,— Dear lives, springing forth from the life of my life, To make you more near, darling, mother and wife! Laura, my darling, there’s hazel-eyed Fred, Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed, And little King Arthur, whose curls have the art Of winding their tendrils so close round my heart; Yet fairer than either, and dearer than both, Is the true one who gave me in girlhood her troth: For we, when we mated for evil and good,— What were we, darling, but babes in the wood? Laura, my darling, the years which have flown Brought few of the prizes I pledged to my own. I said that no sorrow should roughen her way,— Her life should be cloudless, a long summer’s day. Shadow and sunshine, thistles and flowers, Which of the two, darling, most have been ours? Yet to-night, by the smile on your lips, I can see You are dreaming of me, darling, dreaming of me. Laura, my darling, the stars, that we knew In our youth, are still shining as tender and true; The midnight is sounding its slumberous bell, And I come to the one who has loved me so well. Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is done: What shall dissever our lives which are one? Say, while the rose listens under her breath, “Naught until death, darling, naught until death!” THE TRYST. Sleeping, I dreamed that thou wast mine, In some ambrosial lovers’ shrine. My lips against thy lips were pressed, And all our passion was confessed; So near and dear my darling seemed, I knew not that I only dreamed. Waking, this mid and moonlit night, I clasp thee close by lover’s right. Thou fearest not my warm embrace, And yet, so like the dream thy face And kisses, I but half partake The joy, and know not if I wake. VIOLET EYES. One can never quite forget Eyes like yours, May Margaret, Eyes of dewy violet! Nothing like them, Margaret, Save the blossoms newly born Of the May and of the Morn. Oft my memory wanders back To those burning eyes and black, Whose heat-lightnings once could move Me to passion, not to love; Longer in my heart of hearts Linger those disguiséd arts, Which, betimes, a hazel pair Used upon me unaware; And the wise and tender gray— Eyes wherewith a saint might pray— Speak of pledges that endure And of faith and vigils pure; But for him who fain would know All the fire the first can show, All the art, or friendship fast, Of the second and the last,— And would gain a subtler worth, Part of Heaven, part of Earth,— He these mingled rays can find In but one immortal kind: In those eyes of violet, In _your_ eyes, May Margaret! THE DOORSTEP.