I love the Winter dearly, too, . . . but then
I owe it so much; on a winter's day,
Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again,
When you had been those weary months away.

I love the Stars like friends; so many nights
I gazed at them, when you were far from me,
Till I grew blind with tears those far-off lights
Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see.

I love the Flowers; happy hours lie

Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear; but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden Past.

I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise
Seems like a crown upon my Life, to make

It better worth the giving, and to raise
Still nearer to your own the heart you take.

I love all good and noble souls ; - I heard

One speak of you but lately, and for days,

Only to think of it, my soul was stirred

In the tender memory of such generous praise.

I love all those who love you; all who owe
Comfort to you: and I can find regret

Even for those poorer hearts who once could know
And once could love you, and can now forget.

Well, is my heart so narrow,

I, who spare

Love for all these? Do I not even hold My favorite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold?

The Poets that you used to read to me

While summer twilights faded in the sky;
But most of all I think Aurora Leigh,
Because because - do you remember why?

Will you be jealous? Did you guess before

I loved so many things? Still you the best:
Dearest, remember that I love you more,
O, more a thousand times, than all the rest!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTer.

TRUE OR FALSE.

So you think you love me, do you?
Well, it may be so;

But there are many ways of loving

I have learnt to know.

Many ways, and but one true way,

Which is very rare;

And the counterfeits look brightest,
Though they will not wear.

Yet they ring, almost, quite truly,
Last (with care) for long;

But in time must break, may shiver
At a touch of wrong:

Having seen what looked most real

Crumble into dust;

Now I chose that test and trial

Should precede my trust.

I have seen a love demanding
Time and hope and tears,
Chaining all the past, exacting
Bonds from future years;

Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow,
Claiming as its fee:

That was Love of Self, and never,
Never Love of me!

That, perhaps, was - Love of Pleasure, But not Love of me!

I have seen a love whose patience

Never turned aside,

Full of tender, fond devices;

Constant, even when tried;

Smallest boons were held as victories,

Drops that swelled the sea:

That I think was Love of Power,

But not Love of me!