SONNET.

I MARKED you once this winter at a ball,

Where glaring splendors mocked the cheerless night, -

I marked you, say I, as in glimmering white

You sat upon the stairway, and a tall

Dark figure leaned above you. Fair and small

Your pale hands drooped, and from your idle sight

Faded the whirling dance; your ringlets bright

Waved in the swaying breeze, that dense with all

The balmy breath of music as it dies

Mingled with roses lulled you, gay before.

And as he murmured low, his pleading eyes

Into your soul a dreamy quiet bore,

Till all at once you woke in sweet surprise,

With exclamation quick, - "Not been to Pinafore?"

W. T.