Her dimpled cheeks are pale;
She ’s a lily of the vale,
Not a rose.
In a muslin or a lawn
She is fairer than the dawn
To her beaux.
Her boots are slim and neat,—
She is vain about her feet,
It is said.
She amputates her r’s,
But her eyes are like the stars
Overhead.
On a...
I see a tiny fluttering form
Beneath the soft snow’s soundless storm,
’Mid a strange noonlight palely shed
Through mocking cloud-rifts overhead.
All other birds are far from sight,—
They think the day has turned to night;
But he is cast in hardier mould,
This chirping courier of the cold.
He does not come from lands forlorn,...
