Catoctin Clarion

WHAT IS LOVE.

It was in the pleasant spring-time Just as day was touching night, When we took a walk together Underneath the soft moonlight.

So we strolled along quite slowly Talking gaily all the while. All my heart responsive echoing To her features'speaking smile.

Soon we reached that old, old subject, Told in many poet's strain; Growing older through the ages, Only to be young again.

Then she turned her eyes upon me- Eyes as bright as stars above- And in accents sweet and tender. Whispered, Tell me-what is love?"

Then my arm in gentle pressure, With resistance unconfessed, Stole around, and drew her to me, Till her ruby lips I pressed.

And I drew her closer, closer, And her golden hair caressed. Till her head sank lower, lower. With a murmur not repressed-

Murmur, which, in accents fainter, Come like moonbeams from above: Accents, which, though tender, thrilled me

"Tell me, dearest-what is love?"

Then I told her how love's passion Held man by its power fast: Would do so throughout the future, As it had done in the past.

How it gave, in women lovely Fuel for those hours of bliss When the fire the heart consuming. Found vent in the burning kiss.

Told her how old Jove, the mighty Favoring earth with God-like smile. Raised to man fair Aphrodite From the foam of Cyprus' Isle.

Whispered every tale remembered, Whether told in prose or rhyme; How love now ruled each emotion, As it had done through all time.

Thus we sat, drawn close together, Scarcely knowing what we said, With the roses all around us Blushing to a deeper red.

Till, with arms together twining. On her love-lit face upturned Rained I kisses "like the lava." Kisses, "melting while they burned.'

And the moon, brimful of spring-time, Looked down on us from above While she said, in murmured whispers, "Teach me, dearest, how to love."

But just here imagination Takes the place of memory caged; All I know is that that evening Found us-can you guess-engaged