than ever before, and their love is deeper and more disinterested than when they were young.
What untold thousands of women, married and single, ay, and men too, are there living within the absurd fences of this our very crude and imperfect civilization, whose hearts daily, nay, hourly, sing this song as I certainly ; and perhaps, reader, you also do! —
In some covert by the sea
One day let me buried be;
On the long and lonely reaches
Of the white wave -hardened beaches,
Where the sun burns, fixed as fate,
Shores unshadowed, desolate,
Let my corpse unserviced lie
In that august company, —
Kock severe and stainless sky.
Press the earth well on my brow,
Lest it throb and swell as now;
Hide my visage from the sun,
Glad life's toil and heat are done.
Leave me then for Death to soothe,
Leave the tide my grave to smooth;
Prayer and song for me are done,
Leave the spot to winds and sun.
I, in traverse of my lot,
Seek my kin but find them not;
Alien somehow from my race,
Find no friend nor resting-place;
Some dark mixture of my blood,
Fatal warp of eye and mood,
Subtly holds from me apart
Tenderest grace of eye and heart.
Give me leave to lay aside
Heart of grief and brow of pride:
Love — the dole of charity;
Trust — that leaves hearts free to fly;
These for death's sincerity
I shall change with great content,
With the cliffs my monument,
And my locked and icy dream
Stirred not by the sea-bird's scream.
Brunettes are the quickest to love, are the most passionate, voluptuous, and intense. Blondes are slower, but more enduring;
