The mystery is solved apace: The mirror but reflects her grace.
Her mirror Celia now defies, She sees herself in all men's eyes.
Celia 's a witch, and hath such arts, Her image is in all men's hearts.
A lover left his new-made bride And shot a dove with her mate at her side.
I have stood and watched the Eagle soar into the Sun, And envied him his swift light-cleaving pinion; And, though I may not soar, at least I may Lift up my feet above the encumbering clay.
There be three things real in all the earth: Mother-love, Death, and a Little Child's mirth.
Little Dolly Dimple, In her green wimple, Knows all the philosophers know: That fire is hot And ice is not, And that sun will melt the snow. She has heard that the moon is made of green cheese; But she 's not quite certain of this. She knows if you tickle your nose you will sneeze, And a hurt is made well by a kiss. I wish I were wise as Dolly is wise, For mysteries lie in her deep, clear eyes.
"_The Fourteenth Day of February fine: I choose you for my Valentine._"
Thus ran the first of the sweet old rhymes On the Lovers'-Day in the old, sweet times: And so, I follow closely along To tell my love in the words of the song.
"_Roses are red; violets are blue; Pinks are sweet, and so are you._"
Roses are red in my sweetheart's cheeks, Deepening tints whenever one speaks; Violets are blue in the eyes of one; In the eyes of the other smileth the sun; But never were roses half so rare And never were pinks a tithing as fair And never have they in their garden-bed A hundredth part of the fragrance shed,
As my two flowers in their sweet home-frame, Both flowers by nature and one by name. So as sure as the bloom grows on the vine I 'll choose them for my valentine: My sweet-heart one and my sweet-heart two, Both little sweet-hearts sweet and true-- To love and to cherish forever mine: To cherish and love as my valentine.
Sarvent, Marster! Yes, suh, dat 's me-- 'Ole Unc' Gabe' 's my name; I thankee, Marster; I 'm 'bout, yo' see. "An' de ole 'ooman?" She 's much de same: Po'ly an' c'plainin', thank de Lord! But de Marster's gwine ter come back from 'broad.
"Fine ole place?" Yes, suh, 't is so; An' mighty fine people my white folks war-- But you ought ter 'a' seen it years ago, When de Marster an' de Mistis lived up dyah; When de niggers 'd stan' all roun' de do', Like grains o' corn on de cornhouse flo'.