THE LOVER TO HIS LASS.

Dearest, the Winter is here! "It will be sad," so you said, "When no green leaves overhead Shadow the paths where we tread!" I said "It still will be dear If we still meet, O my sweet!"

See how the seasons are kind! See this December forget How to be weary and wet! Hardly our June I regret, Winter so comely I find Since you are here, O my dear!

Sweetheart, I sometimes believe, Love, not the sun, makes us glad; Even the mists were not sad If your soft hand-clasp I had. Hearts sing, though skies mourn and grieve, All weather's fair If you're there!

Someday a home there shall be, Love shall be sun of it, sweet! Joy shall be full and complete— Sound of small voices and feet; While, like the sunshine, for me, You light up life— You—my wife!