The Morning News

A Lover's Letter.
Your letter came, and its wings are folded
Here on my beating heart. Don't laugh.
That is strictly true. In my left vest pocket
I have laid it over your photograph
And the little brown silken tress you gave me
(I think your hair looks so lovely, curled)—
I carry my treasures all together
My only wealth in the whole wide world.
Dancing, rowing, yacht sailing, riding,
And all the gayety, all the fun;
Yet you tell me still, it is dull and stupid
(Good girl!) and you wish it over and done:
And you "long to feel the old pavements under
Your feet once more, and the dreamy charm
Of the avenue breeze through the twilight blowing
And your hand on somebody's strong, kind arm."
For me, I work till the day is ended
Then smoke and dream, while the street lamps shine,
And think of the time we will sit together,
Your cheek on my shoulder, your hand in mine,
And look out over the sleeping city
With the beautiful bright dark sky above.
Too poor for Newport or Narragansett,
But rich as misers, in faith and love.
I smoke and dream, while I build my castles—
Such wonderful structures, so bright and fair;
No space for sorrow, no room for weeping—
Too bad their basis should be but air.
Yet I dream and hope till sleep comes to claim me,
My castles vanish; I quench the light,
But I breathe your name in a little prayer, dear,
While you are dancing.
Sweetheart, good night.
M. S. BRIDGES.