If she sigh-a zephyr swells
Over odorous asphodels

And wan lilies in lush plots

Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.

Then, the soft touch of her hand-
Takes all breath to understand

What to liken it thereto !

Never roseleaf rinsed with dew
Might slip soother-suave than slips

Her slow palm, the while her lips
Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss
Sweet as heated honey is.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

JULIA.

OME asked me where the rubies grew,

SOME

And nothing I did say,

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow, and where;

Then spake I to my girl,

To part her lips, and shew me there

The quarelets of pearl.

One asked me where the roses grew;
I bade him not go seek;

But forth with bade my Julia shew
A bud in either cheek.

ROBERT HERRICK.

JULIA.

YOU, who know such Mays as blow
The cowslips by the ways, dear,

The mountain-pink whose heart, you'd think,
The thorn-pierced sparrow's blood did drink,
In their wise way, how-can you say?—
Is it you 're like such Mays, dear?
In moods that run from shade to sun,
A thoughtful gloom; like wild perfume,
A winning smile that laughs down guile-
Dear day! so go such days, dear.

In you some song keeps trying long,

Like some song bird, for flight, child; And when you speak all up your cheek A crystal blush will faintly flush So saintly sweet! and at your feet All shadow turns to light, child. You may not know, but it is so, If you but look, hark! far a brook Foams white through buds! for of the woods I know you are some sprite, child.

Yes, yes; I swear that what 's your

hair

Is but the soft-spun wind, love:
Why, when you move it is as Love
Hid in your grace and feet to face
Peeped roguishly; and well I see
This Love is not a blind Love.
Laugh, and I hear, in each pink ear
Wood-blossoms strain, dew-words of rain
Slip musical, for you are all

Of music to my mind, love.

MADISON CAWEIN.

JULIET.

ROMEO. But, soft! what light through

yonder window breaks!

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

It is my lady; O! it is

my

O, that she knew she were!

love :

She speaks, yet she says nothing! What of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it.

I am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those
stars,

As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing and think it were not

night.

From "Romeo and Juliet."

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

I

JULIET.

SEE you, Juliet, still, with your straw hat Loaded with vines, and with your dear pale

face,

On which those thirty years so lightly sat,
And the white outline of your muslin dress.
You wore a little fichu trimmed with lace
And crossed in front, as was the fashion then,
Bound at your waist with a broad band or sash,
All white and fresh and virginally plain.
There was a sound of shouting far away

Down in the valley, as they called to us,

And you, with hands clasped seeming still to

pray

Patience of fate, stood

listening to me thus

With heaving bosom. There a rose lay curled. It was the reddest rose in all the world.

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT.

JUNE.

JUNE! June!" the birds are singing,
All this long summer day;

"June! June!" the woods are ringing
The echo of each lay.

Where is the charming maiden?

Will she come to me soon?

Return oh, dear, love-laden
Incomparable June!

Her mind a noble shrine is
For all that 's pure and good;
Her heart a holy sign is

Of Love's most sacred mood.
Her name is but a token

For Life's most perfect rune,
And e'er so lightly spoken

I love the name of June.

DOUGLAS MORROW.