id,
As she pressed them to her cheek,
"Why, the opened petals almost seem
As if they were trying to speak."

I wonder why she cannot hear
The song that the flowers sing,
I wonder if she knows or cares
For the message the roses bring.

JAMES P. SAWYER.
_Yale Record_.

~A Lyric.~

Beneath the lilac-tree,
With its breathing blooms of white,
You waved a parting kiss to me
In the deepening amber light.

Your face is always near,
Your tender eyes of brown.
I see your form in dreams; I hear
The whisper of your gown.

Once more the lilac-tree
With twilight dew is wet;
But, oh, I would that you might be
Alive to love me yet.

EDWARD M. HULME.
_The Palo Alto._

Pallas

You say there's a sameness in my style,
You long for the savor of something new,
You tell me that love is not worth while,
You wish for verse that is strong and true.
Well, I will leave the choice to you--
Prose or poetry, short or long,
Only we'll let this be the cue--
Love is excluded from the song.

I'll sing of some old cathedral pile,
Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew,
The sunlight illumines nave and aisle,
And peace seems thrilling us through and through.
No? you don't think that will do?
How would you like a busy throng,
A battle, Elizabeth's retinue?
But love is excluded from the song.

A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle,
The hush of the forest, the ocean blue,
A lament for all that is false and vile,
A paean for all that is good and true.
Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue,
Mournful or merry, right or wrong.
Subjects, you'll find, are not so few,
But love is excluded from the song.

Oh! for a song of yourself you sue!
Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong.
Sing of your eyes and your smile and--Pooh!
Love is excluded from the song.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._

~How I Love Her.~

Dear, I'll tell you how I love you--
Not by singing sweetly of you--
Oh, I love you far too much,
For the daintiest rhyme's light touch;
No, it needs no language signs,
It's written here between the lines,
How I love you! You will see
If you look there, loving me.

C.B. NEWTON.
_Nassau Literary Monthly._

~Polly.~

She fluttered gaily down the hill--
That merry, dimpled lass--
She hurried singing down the hill,
And then she loitered by the mill,
And saw the bubbles pass,
Made double in the glass
Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.

She h