Selected Poetry.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1583, 1 April 1887, Page 4

Selected Poetry.

HAUNTED.

Dad I I cannot believe it quite. Wm it true that word I heard tonight, Or only a terrible dream ? For whatever I aleep of late, you know, Wild haunting dreams of coming woe Through my aleep like beacoua gleam. Dead! I hare often aeen her dead, The green graae cruahed beneath her head, With hliee about her feet; And always, always, her open eyes Staring up at the summer skies, And her face white as a sheet. And in my dreams I always shrink From these glassy eyes and I try to think That they cannot look at me; But I know, in a terrible, ghostly way, That they follow me when I go away, And chide me silently. Dead! 0 God! I can fancy her Lying so still, with no breath to stir Her garments, fair and white; I can fancy her hair of golden red Straying about the cold, still head In tresses sunny and bright. Her small hands elapsed as if in prayer Upon the breast, where pain and care Shall never linger more; And the sweet warm lips, now cold in death, Tbat parted and smiled with her bring breath, Set in the last look they>ore! But I cannot see her dim, dead eyes. O God ! if, as so still the lies, They should yet be open wide ! And perhaps with some strange power of sight. Should follow me by day and night, And find me where I bide! The people say tbat I am mad, Tbat all my dreams so wild and sad Are the mind's mad wanderings. God knows! But this at least I know. If y dreams bare told of a coming woe, Such as this message brings! Perchance the madness all will pass When they lay me, too, in the long dank grass. And she haunts my heart no more, Best will come to us "both, and sleep That none can break, it will be so deep, When life's wild dream is o'er. H. B. M. A LEGEND OF THE AUTUMN LEAVES. Carpeted with loaves Is the cheerless earth; Learrs like yellow gold, Yet not gold in worth. ■ Yea, indeed, we are Worth our weight in gold!" Said a tiny leaf, Daring to be bold. * To the Under roota We a shelter give, So through winter's cold They in warmth may live. If we did not fall In the autumn time Chilled they all would be By the frost and rime. So when breezes blow, Down to earth we fall; Worth our weight in gold ? " " Aye!" cried one and all. — Boston Tranicript.