BY MANJERI S. ISVARAN

SHE:

My heart is shy, oh shy,

Its secret to you to rune;

And like the summer rose

Beneath the summer moon,

Lone in its natal close,

Ah, must it swoon,

Ah, must it die

Aching with its own rich perfume?

HE:

You are a flower, but more you seem,

A Ko-hi-noor, pure, rare!

And a glory it doth diffuse

That you are unaware;

And in its beamy coronal

Of innumerable hues,

I have descried a changeless hue

Of rose exceeding clear,

And rose is, . . . Love, my dear!

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