.

.

perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide; perhaps because her tresses beat A froth of gold about her throat, and poured In splendour to the feet that ever seemed Afloat.

Perhaps because of that wild way Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety; Or--who will say ?--perhaps the way she wept." The lovely voice ceased, and its musical vibrations seemed to hover in the air after the sound was stilled.
"It's beautiful," Patty said, at last, in an awed tone; "I had no idea you could write like that! Why, it's real poetry." "You're real poetry," said Blaney, simply, as he put the written paper in his pocket.
"No, no," cried Patty, "give it to me.

It's mine.