THE hand is prest against her throbbing heart,
Striving the current warm and swift to stay,
Lest pulsing through her veins it treacherous dart
Into her fingers, and with wanton sway
So make the pen disclose the thoughts that flow
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Beneath the words as, 'neath its cooled crust,
The molten lava runs and hides a glow
It dares not to the cooling winds intrust.
"Would he were here to tear away the hand
That prisons my poor heart, and let the blood,
With joyous passion bursting through the band
Of modesty, to my pale cheeks swift flood,
And tell him more than maiden hand may write, though great
His sin against me, though his penitence comes late!"
Y.
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Communications.
