MY LOVE.

OT as all other women are

Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,

Beneath the silver evening-star,

And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own,

Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses,

What all our lives to save thee?

We reck not what we gave thee;

We will not dare to doubt thee,

But ask whatever else, and we will dare!

FAVORITE POEMS.