Not for me marring or making, Not for me giving or taking; I love my Love and he loves not me, I love my Love and my heart is breaking.

Sweet is Spring in its lovely showing, Sweet the violet veiled in blowing, Sweet it is to love and be loved; Ah, sweet knowledge beyond my knowing!

Who sighs for love sighs but for pleasure, Who wastes for love h.o.a.rds up a treasure; Sweet to be loved and take no count, Sweet it is to love without measure.

Sweet my Love whom I loved to try for, Sweet my Love whom I love and sigh for, Will you once love me and sigh for me, You my Love whom I love and die for?

MEMENTO MORI.

Poor the pleasure Doled out by measure, Sweet though it be, while brief As falling of the leaf; Poor is pleasure By weight and measure.

Sweet the sorrow Which ends to-morrow; Sharp though it be and sore, It ends for evermore: Zest of sorrow, What ends to-morrow.

"ONE FOOT ON SEA, AND ONE ON Sh.o.r.e."

"Oh tell me once and tell me twice And tell me thrice to make it plain, When we who part this weary day, When we who part shall meet again."

"When windflowers blossom on the sea And fishes skim along the plain, Then we who part this weary day, Then you and I shall meet again."

"Yet tell me once before we part, Why need we part who part in pain?

If flowers must blossom on the sea, Why, we shall never meet again.

"My cheeks are paler than a rose, My tears are salter than the main, My heart is like a lump of ice If we must never meet again."

"Oh weep or laugh, but let me be, And live or die, for all's in vain; For life's in vain since we must part, And parting must not meet again

"Till windflowers blossom on the sea, And fishes skim along the plain; Pale rose of roses let me be, Your breaking heart breaks mine again."

BUDS AND BABIES.

A million buds are born that never blow, That sweet with promise lift a pretty head To blush and wither on a barren bed And leave no fruit to show.

Sweet, unfulfilled. Yet have I understood One joy, by their fragility made plain: Nothing was ever beautiful in vain, Or all in vain was good.

BOY JOHNNY.

"If you'll busk you as a bride And make ready, It's I will wed you with a ring, O fair lady."

"Shall I busk me as a bride, I so bonny, For you to wed me with a ring, O boy Johnny?"

"When you've busked you as a bride And made ready, Who else is there to marry you, O fair lady?"

"I will find my lover out, I so bonny, And you shall bear my wedding-train, O boy Johnny."

FREAKS OF FASHION.

Such a hubbub in the nests, Such a bustle and squeak!

Nestlings, guiltless of a feather, Learning just to speak, Ask--"And how about the fashions?"

From a cavernous beak.

Perched on bushes, perched on hedges, Perched on firm hahas, Perched on anything that holds them, Gay papas and grave mammas Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings: Hear the gay papas.

Robin says: "A scarlet waistcoat Will be all the wear, Snug, and also cheerful-looking For the frostiest air, Comfortable for the chest too When one comes to plume and pair."

"Neat gray hoods will be in vogue,"

Quoth a Jackdaw: "Glossy gray, Setting close, yet setting easy, Nothing fly-away; Suited to our misty mornings, _A la negligee_."

Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur, Haughty c.o.c.katoos Answer--"Hoods may do for mornings, But for evenings choose High head-dresses, curved like crescents, Such as well-bred persons use."

"Top-knots, yes; yet more essential Still, a train or tail,"

Screamed the Peac.o.c.k: "Gemmed and l.u.s.trous Not too stiff, and not too frail; Those are best which rearrange as Fans, and spread or trail."

Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind An inimitable neck: "After all, there's nothing sweeter For the lawn or lake Than simple white, if fine and flaky And absolutely free from speck."

"Yellow," hinted a Canary, "Warmer, not less _distingue_."

"Peach color," put in a Lory, "Cannot look _outre_."

"All the colors are in fashion, And are right," the Parrots say.

"Very well. But do contrast Tints harmonious,"

Piped a Blackbird, justly proud Of bill aurigerous; "Half the world may learn a lesson As to that from us."

Then a Stork took up the word: "Aim at height and _chic_: Not high heels, they're common; somehow, Stilted legs, not thick, Nor yet thin:" he just glanced downward And snapped to his beak.

Here a rustling and a whirring, As of fans outspread, Hinted that mammas felt anxious Lest the next thing said Might prove less than quite judicious, Or even underbred.

So a mother Auk resumed The broken thread of speech: "Let colors sort themselves, my dears, Yellow, or red, or peach; The main points, as it seems to me, We mothers have to teach,

"Are form and texture, elegance, An air reserved, sublime; The mode of wearing what we wear With due regard to month and clime.

But now, let's all compose ourselves, It's almost breakfast-time."

A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle!

Who cares to chatter or sing With delightful breakfast coming?

Yet they whisper under the wing: "So we may wear whatever we like, Anything, everything!"