319
Love's Tokens.
Love's herald is not speech—
His fear-fraught tongue is mute—
His presence is bewrayed
By blushes deep that shoot
Athwart the conscious brow,
And mantle on the cheek,
Then fleet for tints of snow
Which soft confusion speak;
Thus red and white have place
By turns on true love's face.
Love vaunteth not his worth
In gaudy, glozing phrase,
His home is not in breast
Where thought of worldling stays;
In modest loyaltie
His fountain doth abide;
In bosom greatly good
The lucid pulses tide
That ebb and flow there ever,
Till soul and body sever.
