NOVEMBER AT THE LAKES.

THE wild wood-cherry can no longer blush, Nor chestnuts stand in heavy leaf of gold,

Yet home was there; for that first home of

ours

We did not scorn the voice that called us there!

est hush

bowers,

Our love should wax with time more sweet,

more fair.

Work claimed us; life stood no more idly by, Teaching the happy hours how to fly.

And so we entered where work held the reins, Nor shirked the future with its heavy load; At evening there were wanderings in the lanes;

Love's lamp lit up the gloom in our abode. Yet who could watch the swallow's eager quest

With tired eyes that only longed for rest? He had his dreams to dream, just as of old, His fancies flew above on happy wings; Escaping.all that was so dully told

The weary march of useful common things.
I could not rise; when quite worn out with
pain,
Or children's cries, I longed for sleep again.

I slipped aside unwitting; but in dreams
I saw alone once more that happy time,
Ere work could separate, or blur the gleams
The sun had lent us, turning prose to
rhyme.

He rose yet higher, and I loosed the band;
I would not drag him down from fairy-land.

For he is happy, and his life is sweet,
Nor recks he that so far I lag behind.
Perchance beyond life's mists once more we'll

LEFT BEHIND.

WE started equal in the race-nay, more, We started hand in hand-how good seemed life!

How shone the little waves upon the shore Where first we wandered; when he called me wife,

I could not see the shadow's awesome birth,
For sunshine flooded all the fair young earth.

How has it faded? Love that was so true
In those first days, has lost its early grace.
Soft drifting clouds gather below the blue,
That seemed to be fair Heaven's unclouded
face,

That shone above us as we turned to leave
A life of dreams-that love alone did weave.