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QUATRAINS.

LOVE.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

A SINGLE rose, a thousand thorns,

A tropic day, a polar night,

A wound that every ointment scorns,

A weakness that is more than might.

MIST.FOAM of the wind-waves, lightly driven

Through the blue ether and lower air,

Thou art like a stainless hope in heaven,

On earth thou seemest a white despair.

VIOLETS.BORN of heaven, and heaven-endued,

Fair and wise and chaste and free,

Simple-hearted, modest-hued, -

Ye are what my love shall be.

C. F. L.

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