THE ONLOOKER.

If I could make a pillow for your head,

Soft, pleasant, filled with every pretty thought;

If I could lay a carpet where you tread

Of all my life's most radiant fancies wrought,

And spread my love as canopy above you,

Your sleep, your steps should know how much I love you.

But — as life goes, to the old sorry tune —

I stand apart, I see thorns wound your feet,

Your sleeping eyes resenting sun and moon,

Your head lie restless on a breast unmeet —

And say no word, and suffer without moan,

Lest you should guess how much you are alone.