IS IT DONE?

It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes, The last line has withered and curled.

In a tiny white heap of dead ashes Lie buried the hopes of your world.

There were mad foolish vows in each letter, It is well they have shriveled and burned, And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter, It was better removed and returned.

But ah, is it done? in the embers Where letters and tokens were cast, Have you burned up the heart that remembers, And treasures its beautiful past?

Do you think in this swift reckless fashion To ruthlessly burn and destroy The months that were freighted with pa.s.sion, The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kisses That flashed from the lips to the soul?

Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses In spite of its strength of control?

Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers That thrilled through each pulse and each vein, Or the sound of a voice that still lingers And hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended?

You have put all the lights out, and yet, Though the curtain, rung down, has descended, Can the actors go home and forget?

Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping With a strange restless pain in their hearts, And in darkness, and anguish and weeping, Will dream they are playing their parts.

A LEAF.

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve, That you were married, or soon to be.

I have not thought of you, I believe, Since last we parted. Let me see: Five long Summers have pa.s.sed since then-- Each has been pleasant in its own way-- And you are but one of a dozen men Who have played the suitor a Summer day.

But, nevertheless, when I heard your name, Coupled with some one's, not my own, There burned in my bosom a sudden flame, That carried me back to the day that is flown.

I was sitting again by the laughing brook, With you at my feet, and the sky above, And my heart was fluttering under your look-- The unmistakable look of Love.

Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned My cheek, where the blushes came and went; And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand Sudden thrills through my pulses sent.

Again you were mine by Love's own right-- Mine forever by Love's decree: So for a moment it seemed last night, When somebody mentioned your name to me.

Just for the moment I thought you mine-- Loving me, wooing me, as of old.

The tale remembered seemed half divine-- Though I held it lightly enough when told.

The past seemed fairer than when it was near, As "Blessings brighten when taking flight;"

And just for the moment I held you dear-- When somebody mentioned your name last night.

AESTHETIC.

In a garb that was guiltless of colors She stood, with a dull, listless air-- A creature of dumps and of dolors, But most undeniably fair.

The folds of her garment fell round her, Revealing the curve of each limb; Well proportioned and graceful I found her, Although quite alarmingly slim.

From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal-- "High art" was she down to her feet; And though I could not understand all She said, I could see she was sweet.

Impressed by her limpness and languor, I proffered a chair near at hand; She looked back a mild sort of anger-- Posed anew, and continued to stand.

Some praises I next tried to mutter Of the fan that she held to her face; She said it was "utterly utter,"

And waved it with languishing grace.

I then, in a strain quite poetic, Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, She looked--said its curve was "aesthetic."

But the "tone was too dreadfully high."

Her lovely face, lit by the splendor That glorified landscape and sea, Woke thoughts that were daring and tender: Did _her_ thoughts, too, rest upon me?

"Oh, tell me," I cried, growing bolder, "Have I in your musings a place?"

"Well, yes," she said over her shoulder: "I was thinking of nothing in s.p.a.ce."

POEMS OF THE WEEK.

SUNDAY.

Lie still and rest, in that serene repose That on this holy morning comes to those Who have been burdened with the cares which make The sad heart weary and the tired head ache.

Lie still and rest-- G.o.d's day of all is best.

MONDAY.

Awake! arise! Cast off thy drowsy dreams!

Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams.

"As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say.

Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day.

And see! thy neighbor Already seeks his labor.

TUESDAY.

Another morning's banners are unfurled-- Another day looks smiling on the world.

It holds new laurels for thy soul to win: Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin, Nor sad, away, Send it to yesterday.

WEDNESDAY.

Half-way unto the end--the week's high noon.

The morning hours do speed away so soon!

And, when the noon is reached, however bright, Instinctively we look toward the night.

The glow is lost Once the meridian crost.

THURSDAY.