A STREAM with soft, melodious voice
Runs singing through a flowery mead;
And when our college days are past
There antique idyls we will read,
Until the mystic wave reveals
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Fair Naiads on its silver tide,
And mid the sweetly blooming flowers
The Nymphs in winsome frolic hide.
There, with a simple wild-flower wreath
Circling her brow, and filmy lace
Thrown o'er her Parian shoulders, flits
A Dryad to her trysting-place.
And in her sweet, dark, lustrous eyes
We see, as in a vistaed dream,
Touched by the wand of mystery,
A thousand years of fable gleam.
Under an azure sky serene
Softly the summer zephyrs blow;
Woven upon a mythic loom,
The fairy pictures come and go.
A. L. H.
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