A PICTURE.
She sits in the twilight dim and tender,
Carelessly folding her small white hands,
Watching the sunset's crimson splendor
Fade from the broad, green meadow-lands,—
While the sweet south wind, like one that blesses,
Kisses the forehead pure and fair,
Wooes the red lips with soft caresses,
Daintily toys with the golden hair.
Softly the mantle of evening closes
