WHEN, like a stately maid, the moon goes down,
And hides herself far in the western sky,
Beyond the vision of a watchful eye,
Behind the mountains looking dull and brown,
I think of you in that old Tuscan town
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Which sleeps on Arno's bank; and, musing, try
In fancy to behold the moon draw nigh,
And light the city with her crescent crown.
When she, to-night, shall let the moonbeams gay,
Along the ancient paved roadways creep,
I know these magic mimics of the day
Will climb the wall, and in your window peep
And cry, "A thousand joys!" - ther steal away,
First having kissed your eyelids fast asleep.
- Acta Columbiana.
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Make up Mid-Year Examinations.
