Open the door of thy heart,
And open thy chamber door,
And my kisses shall teach thy lips.
The love that shall fade no more
Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold.

WIND AND SEA.

THE Sea is a jovial comrade,
He laughs wherever he goes;
His merriment shines in the dimpling lines
That wrinkle his hale repose;

He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun,
And shakes all over with glee,

And the broad-back'd billows fall faint on the shore,
In the mirth of the mighty Sea!

But the Wind is sad and restless,
And cursed with an inward pain;

You may hark as you will, by valley or hill,
But you hear him still complain.

He wails on the barren mountains,
And shrieks on the wintry sea;

He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine,
And shudders all over the aspen tree.

Welcome are both their voices,

And I know not which is best,

The laughter that slips from the Ocean's lips,
Or the comfortless Wind's unrest.

There's a pang in all rejoicing,

A joy in the heart of pain,

And the Wind that saddens, the Sea that gladdens, Are singing the self-same strain!

JULIA C. R. DORR.

Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1825—

WHAT SHE THOUGHT.

MARION show'd me her wedding gown
And her veil of gossamer lace to-night,
And the orange blooms that to-morrow morn
Shall fade in her soft hair's golden light.
But Philip came to the open door;

Like the heart of a wild rose glow'd her cheek, And they wander'd off through the garden paths, So blest that they did not care to speak.

I wonder how it seems to be loved;

To know you are fair in some one's eyes;
That upon some one your beauty dawns
Every day as a new surprise.

To know that whether you weep or smile,
Whether your mood be grave or gay,
Somebody thinks you all the while
Sweeter than any flower of May!

I wonder what it would be to love;
That, I think, would be sweeter far—
To know that one out of all the world
Was lord of your life, your king, your star!
They talk of love's sweet tumult and pain;
I am not sure that I understand,

Though a thrill ran down to my finger-tips,
Once when somebody-touch'd my hand.

I wonder what it would be to dream

Of a child that might one day be your own, Of the hidden springs of your life a part, Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone. Marion stoop'd one day to kiss

A beggar's babe, with a tender grace, While some sweet thought, like a prophecy, Look'd from her pure Madonna face.

I wonder what it must be to think
To-morrow will be your wedding day,
And, in the radiant sunset glow,

Down fragrant flowery paths to stray,
As Marion does this blessed night

With Philip, lost in a blissful dream.

Can she feel his heart through the silence beat?
Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?

Questioning thus, my days go on,

But never an answer comes to me;
All love's mysteries, sweet as strange,
Seal'd away from my life must be.
Yet still I dream, O heart of mine!
Of a beautiful city that lies afar;
And there, sometime, I shall drop the mask,
And be shapely and fair as others are!

OUTGROWN.

NAY, you wrong her, my friend! she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown :

One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say;

And you know we were children together, have quarrell'd and "made up" in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you woo'd her, you stood on the selfsame plane,

Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May;

And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down;

And hers has been steadily soaring-but how has it been with your own?

She has struggled and yearn'd and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year:

The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crown'd with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago,

Has learn'd that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer; but their vision is clearer as well:

Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talk'd:

The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walk'd.

And you? Have you aim'd at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and pray'd?

Have you look'd upon evil unsullied? Have you conquer'd it undismay'd?

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have roll'd on?

Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When today in her presence you stood,

Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go, measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled!

Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.

She cannot look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires;

He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

LUCY LARCOM.

Born in Massachusetts 1826

A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO.

No! is my answer from this cold, bleak ridge,
Down to your valley; you may rest you there :
The gulf is wide, and none can build a bridge
That your gross weight would safely hither bear.
Pity me, if you will! I look at you

With something that is kinder far than scorn,
And think" Ah, well! I might have grovel'd, too;
I might have walk'd there, fetter'd and forsworn."

I am of nature weak as others are;

I might have chosen comfortable ways;
Once from these heights I shrank, beheld afar,
In the soft lap of quiet easy days.

I might, I will not hide it, once I might

Have lost, in the warm whirlpools of your voice,