TRUE LOVE.

ENOUGH have I of zephyrs soft and low,

Enough of breezes loaded with perfume,

Sickening the senses, showering down the bloom

Of roses, hiding velvet sward below.

Me rather please the northern winds, which blow

Strong, steady, clear, and cold, which fill the heart

With no vague longing; these shall never part

Desire from duty, but shall make me know

How, O my love, to use my utmost strength,

And seek thee in the path that I should tread;

Not drawing out my useless days in length

Of love-sick dreams, which sicken heart and head,

But loving like a man, who sets his eyes

On what he hopes to win, and struggles for the prize.

E. C. P.