Page:The New England Magazine 1891, 5.1.djvu/14

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AN AUGUST SKETCH.—A SEPTEMBER SKETCH.

MY FIRST LOVE.

By John Allister Currie.

'TIS when the rosy petals of the day  Are scattered softly on my chamber floor,  Chasing the shadows out night's dusky door, I wake, and all the old desires that stay, Locked up within my heart, new influence ply.  I part the casement and I seek the shore,  To greet my sweet beloved at morn once more, And for a moment on her bosom lie.
There is no other face one half so kind! There is no other eye so blue to me;Nor yet a bosom that I e'er could find,  Filled with such moods and passions wild and free. There is no fairer cheek kissed by the wind,  Than my first love's, that I love still—the Sea.

AN AUGUST SKETCH.

By Catherine Thayer.

BEYOND a sand-dune's slope, where the pale grass Clings with firm roots upon the shelving side, A storm-ribbed beach extends its shining length, A golden zone, confining the deep surge Of the vast ocean's ceaseless energy; The tide waves flash translucent in the sun, Empearled with spray, then melt in snowy foam With gentle, rythmic murmur on its sands.

A SEPTEMBER SKETCH.

By Catherine Thayer.

THE grasses in the meadows by the bay Blend in rich harmonies of autumn tints, Faint russet, yellow, tinged with ruddy tones; The glowing colors softened by the haze Until harmonious with the water’s hue Of neutral gray—upon whose glassy calm Are mirrored forth the outlines of the hills, And the slow-gliding vessels' drooping sails.


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