POETRY.

DOLLY.

DEAR little Dolly, pink and white, Plays with her kitten from morn till night. Over and under the chairs it steals, Wars with a handkerchief, runs with reels, Purrs as she fondles its plumy hair— Never was seen such a pretty pair.

Dear little Doll, you're a woman grown : (Listen, and let your kitten alone,) What you are, how you come to be— That is the puzzle that puzzles me.

Hair the colour of blossomed lime Matches blue eyes like rhyme and rhyme.

Pink little bud of a mouth—'tis choice For such a sweet little fluty voice : These are appropriate, I'll allow ; Then, why should you have that classic brow

Delicate feet for tripping toes—

But how do you come by a Roman nose?

That profile for a fay like you Had Lucretia a kitten too?

How shall I best express your sweetness How shall I render its incompleteness ? What comparison must I fetch ?

Shall I say, You are just a sketch ?

Only a sketch. To spoil were crime. Who shall finish it P Love ? or Time ?

Time, my dear, is a painter Dutch, Owns a very laborious touch, Very minute effects he tries, With a deal of drawing about the eyes.

Not one touch of his work he'll slur, And never misses the character.

But he works so slowly that all the bloom Dies off a peach in his painting-room.

Love belongs to a different school, Works regardless of every rule ; But let his critics say what they list, Love is a grand impressionist : Handles the sketch, and hour by hour Glows the canvas with growing power. The picture's finished within a day,— No sooner finished than given away.

Only, Dolly, when all is told, And the picture mounted (in black or gold), When all are praising the flawless face And quaint precision of dainty grace,

Shall I wish—when wishing is all in vain—

To see the sweet little sketch again? S. L. Gwarstar,