SEVENTEEN.

SHE is seventeen!

Sun-brown eyes and hair;

In her cheeks are set

Roses bright and rare.

She is seventeen!

Airy is her tread,

Idle dreams of love

Flitting through her head.

Could the bird of Time

But delay his wing;

Could the rolling year

Be but ever spring;

Could my lady fair,

Maid of seventeen,

Stand but ever thus

Hovering between

Childhood's fleeting smiles

And that fatal hour

When the woman wakes

Conscious of her power!

C. P.