love no longer mine, but ours.

"This is our parlor, plain and sweet:
Your hands shall make it half divine.
That wide, old-fashioned window-seat
Beneath your touch shall grow a shrine;
And every nooklet and retreat,

And every barren ledge and shelf,
Shall wear a charm beyond the boon
Of treasure-bearing drift, or delf,
Or dreams that flutter from the moon;
For it shall blossom with yourself.

"This is my study: here, alone,
Prayerful to Him whom I adore,
And gathering speech to make him known,
Your far, quick footsteps on the floor,
Your breezy robe, your cheerful tone,

As through our pretty home you speed
The busy ministries of life,
Will stir me swifter than my creed,
And be more musical, dear wife,
Than sweep of harp, or pipe of reed.

"Here is our fairy banquet hall!
See how it opens to the East,
And looks through elms! The board is small,
But what it bears shall be a feast
At morn, and noon, and evenfall.

"There will you sit in girlish grace,
And catch, the sunrise in your hair;
And looking at you, from my place,
I shall behold more sweet and fair
The morning in your smiling face.

"And guests shall come, and guests shall go,
And break with us our daily bread;
And sometime--sometime--do you know?
I hope that--dearest, lift your head;
And let me speak it, soft and low!

"The grass is sweeter than the ground:
Can love be better than its flowers?
Oh sometime--sometime--in the round
Of coming years, this board of ours
I hope may blossom and abound

With shining curls, and laughing eyes,
And pleasant jests and merry words,
And questions full of life's surprise,
And light and music, when the birds
Have left us to our gloomy skies.

"Now mount with me the old oak stair!
This is your chamber--pink and blue!
They asked the color of your hair,
And draped and fitted all for you,
My fine brunette, with tasteful care.

"The linen is as white as snow;
The flowers are set on every sconce;
And e'en the cushioned pin-heads show
Your formal "welcome," for the nonce,
To the sweet home their hands bestow.

"Declining to the river's marge,
See, from this window, how the turf
Runs with a thousand flowers in charge
To meet the silver feet of surf
That fly from every passing barge!

"Along that reach of liquid light
Flies Commerce with her countless keels;
There the chain