A WOMAN'S KNOWLEDGE.
A ROSE to smell a moment, then to leave, Chance strain of song you smile at as you pass, Bubble that breaks before you lip the glass, Chain frail as the frail thread that spiders weave; Oh, do not think that I myself deceive! Thus, and not otherwise, to you am I,—A moment's pleasure as you pass me by, Powerless, at best, to make you joy or grieve.
And you, to me, my sun-god and my sun, Who warmed my heart to life with careless ray! Forever will that burning memory stay And warm me in the grave when life is done:— What farther grace has any woman won? Since your chance gift you cannot take away.