POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2265, 6 July 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

THE SIOEY OF THE GATE. Across the pathway, myrtle fringed. Under the maple, it was hinged— The little wooden gate ; _ ’Twas there, within the quiet gleam, When I had strolled with Nellie home, I used to pause and wait. Before I said to her good-night, Yet loth to leave the winsome sprite Within the garden’s pale ; And there, the gate between us two, We’d linger, as all lovers do, And lean upon the roiL And face to face, eyes close to eyes. Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise After a stealthy quest— So close I’d bend ere she’d retreat That I’d grow drunken from the sweet Tuberose upon her breast. We’d talk—in fitful stylo I ween— With many a meeting glance between The tender words and low ; We’d whisper some dear sweet conceit, Some idle gossip we’d repeat; And then I’d move to go. " Good-night,” I’d say ; “ Good-night—-good-bye !” “ Good-night ” —from her, with half a sigh—- “ Good-night!” “Good-night!” And then— And then I do not go, but stand, Again lean on the railing, and— Begin it all again ! Ah! that was many a day ogo— That pleasant summer time—although The gate is standing yet ; A little cranky, it may be, A little weather-worn —like me Who never can forget! The happy—“ End ?” My cynic friend, Pray save your sneers—there was no “ end.” Watch yonder chubby thing ! That is our youngest, hers and mine ; See how he climbs, bis legs to twine About the gate and swing. —“ Scribner’s Magazine.”