FROST-BITTEN.

We were driving home from the “Patriarchs’” —

Molly Lefévre and I, you know;

The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;

Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.

Her white arms nestled amid her furs;

Her hands half-held, with languid grace,

Her fading roses; fair to see

Was the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.

I watched her, saying never a word,

For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.

The breath of the roses filled the air,

And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.

At last I said to her, bending near,

“Ah, Molly Lefévre, how sweet‘ twould be,

To ride on dreaming, all our lives,

Alone with the roses — you and me.”

Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,

And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,

Her answer came. It was — “Yes, perhaps —

But who would settle our carriage bill?”

The dying roses breathed their last,

Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,

Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.

It has never been taken up again.