Part 1 (1/2)

When hearts are trumps.

by Thomas Winthrop Hall.

The Perfect Face.

The Graces, on a summer day, Grew serious for a moment; yea, They thought in rivalry to trace The outline of a perfect face.

Each used a rosebud for a brush, And, while it glowed with sunset's blush, Each painted on the evening sky, And each a star used for the eye.

They finished. Each a curtaining cloud Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud: ”Behold, we three have drawn the same, From the same model!” Ah, her name?

I know. I saw the pictures grow.

I saw them falter, fade, and go.

I know the model. Oft she lures My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.

The Moonlight Sonata.

The notes still float upon the air, Just as they did that night.

I see the old piano there,-- Oh, that again I might!

Her young voice haunts my eager ear; Her hair in the candle-light Still seems an aureole,--a tear Is my spectroscope to-night.

I hear her trembling tell me ”No,”

And I know that she answered right But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though She be wed she will dream to-night.

The Kiss

Over the green fields, over the snow, Something I send thee, something I throw.

No one can guess it; no one can know.

Light as a feather, quick as the eye; Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky; Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.

Ah, you have caught it, love! How do I know?

Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago.

Lovers learn all of them. Smile not,--'tis so.

The Bride.

Before her mirror, robed in spotless white, She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face, Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.