THE shadows stretch their lank arms on the wall, And throng the room, while, hardly struggling through

The frowning gloom, on floor and wainscot fall

The wearied ember-flickers. Still we two

Sit hushed, nor dare our idle speech renew;

But as I watch thy firelit face the while,

And whisper "Sweetheart," giving love its due,

Ah, why, dear innocent and free from guile,

Dost thou so sadly and so faintly smile?

W. T.