t lilies are
Less snowy than thy brow.

Nay, Claudia, 't is that every grace
In thy dear self I find;
That Heaven itself is in thy face,
And also in thy mind.

THE APPLE-TREES AT EVEN

Ah! long ago it seems to me,
Those sweet old days of summer,
When I was young and fair was she,
And sorrow only rumor.

And all the world was less than naught
To me who had her favor;
For Time and Care had not then taught
How Life of Death hath savor.

And all the day the roving bees
Clung to the swinging clover,
And robins in the apple-trees
Answered the faint-voiced plover.

And all the sounds were low and sweet;
The zephyrs left off roaming
In curving gambols o'er the wheat,
To kiss her in the gloaming.

The apple-blossoms kissed her hair,
The daisies prayed her wreathe them;
Ah, me! the blossoms still are there,
But she lies deep beneath them.

I now have turned my thoughts to God,
Earth from my heart I sever;
With fast and prayer I onward plod--
With prayer and fast forever.

Yet, when the white-robed priest speaks low
And bids me think of Heaven,
I always hear the breezes blow
The apple-trees at even.

MY TRUE-LOVE'S WEALTH

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,--
For she hath wealth of golden hair,
Shot through with shafts from Delos' bow,
That shines about her shoulders rare,
Like sunlight on new driven snow.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,--
For she hath eyes so soft and bright,
So deep the light that in them lies,
That stars in heaven would lose their light
Ashine beside my True-love's eyes.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,--
For oh! she hath such dainty hands,
So snowy white, so fine and small,
That had I wealth of Ophir's lands,
For one of them I 'd give it all.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,--
For oh! she hath a face so fair,
Such winsome light about it plays,
For worldly wealth I nothing care,
So I can look upon her face.

My True-love hath no wealth they say;
But when they do, I tell them nay,--
For endless wealth of mind hath she,
Her heart so stored with precious lore--
Her riches they as countless be
As shells upon the ocean's shore.

My True-l