A stolen picture--a faded rose-- An evening hushed and bright; A whisper--perhaps a kiss--who knows? A handclasp, and “goodnight.” The sum of what we call “first love,” That dreamflower rare and white, That puts its magic blossom forth And dies in a single night. _1878._ [Illustration] June and December. When our eyes grow dim and our hair turns grey And we sit by the fire together, ’Twill seem strange to talk in a shivering way Of our Summertime’s rosy weather; When our eyes were bright, and our tresses smooth, And the blood in our veins leapt red, In the golden dawn of our long lost youth, With the promise of life ahead. Shall we talk with smiles or with sighs that day Of the years that are dead and gone, Of the cares and the joys that have passed away Like dewdrops beneath the sun? Nay, perchance we’ll see but the sunny side Of the vision, in looking back, And the trace of joys that are past may abide, Where our sorrow have left no track; And perhaps both the joys and the cares may seem In the light of that later day, Like the phantom shapes of some beautiful dream That has long ago passed away. But whate’er beside we may lose or hold From the hoards of the golden past, May the friends we loved in the days of old To our hearts and thoughts cling fast, And before the days come that are coming soon, And whose motto is “I remember,” God grant us one vision of love and June To brighten our life’s December. _October 7th, 1878._ [Illustration] [Illustration] October. A cold grey sea, a cold grey sky And leafless swaying boughs, A wind that wanders sadly by, And moans about the house. And in my lonely heart a cry For days that went before; For joys that fly, and hopes that die, And the past that comes no more. [Illustration] [Illustration] A Woman I Know. For a look from her eyes, for a smile of her mouth Any man might well give the best years of his youth; For the touch of her hand, for the warmth of her kiss Might well barter his chances of infinite bliss; For her step is like sunlight that plays on the sea And her bosom is snowy as snowy can be, And her hair is a mantle inwoven with gold Such as Queens might have worn in the legends of old; And her chin oh so white, and her cheek oh so red, They might well drive a man who should look at them mad; But beneath the bright breast where her heart ought to be, What is there? Why a trap to catch fools, sir, like me! _October, 1878._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Daisies.