When the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, —
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a " formal cut," —
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the " golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, —
Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of " Ayes" and " Noes,"
In a starched procession of " If" and " But," —
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told " that no one knows," —
Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

ENVOY .

I N the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme!