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.