44 WIND-HARP SONGS.

A gift hath to his lady borne

In their bright sylvan room,

A nest, mid orange leaf and thorn

(All open to the Orient morn)

And citrus bridal bloom.

I hear their twitterings sweet and low

Behind the emerald screen;

I hear a flower of music grow

That dims those bells and buds of snow

With all their scent and sheen.

Sweet solace of the Southern home,

The bird I love the best;

Within thy brain some mirthful gnome

Sure bids thee brew this mocking foam

Poured sparkling from thy breast.

WOMEN POETS.

f~\ WOMAN ! Poem alive, to me ;

\^J I wonder not you are unversed in verserie-

Can a poem itself make poetry?