To-day my lady sang to me
My song in sweetest fashion;
Unwrapped it from the melody
In the radiance of its passion.
As one might see a blossom grow,
Yet never see the sun above it,
I thought I loved tile song; but no !
It was her singing of it i
* * *
*** * * *
•e is another which Pastepot liked in the
• so Pen put upon it his mark of approval,
t. The Critic thought that it suggests
and a master's touch.
ON AN OLD PIANO.
The lingering sunbeams waver to and fro
Upon the shattered file of yellow keys,
Which once rang true with rarest melodies
To snowy fingers, in the long ago.
Queer looking case, diminutive and low,
Brought for a royal sum from over-seas.
In this old room it moulders by degrees—
One time a marvel and the county's show,
Long dust, the fingers that the key-board p
The voice long still'd that sang some olden
Yet, as on tiny pane and o'er the floor
The sun falls slanting from the distant we
There hover echoes thro' the afternoon
Arousing dreams unspoken evermore.