HER little hand in mine I would not fold,
Nor touch with one caress her crown of gold;
I would not stir with any thought of me
Her deep, untroubled peace of purity.
She stands above me on a height serene,
My purely worshiped, consecrated queen;
Too precious far I hold the girlish life
To startle it with whispered name of wife.
Love yet shall light for me her violet eyes,
Her tinted cheek proclaim love’s sweet surprise;
But now to touch the folds of her attire
With reverence is all that I desire.
Anna M. Brockway.