POSSESSION.

She is thine own at last, O faithful soul! The love that changed not with the changing years Hath its reward: Desire's strong prayers and tears Fall useless since thy hand hath touched the goal. See how she yieldeth up to thy control Each mystery of her beauty: enter, thou, A vanquished victor. None can disavow Thy royal, love-bought right unto the whole Of love's rich feast. Oh outspread golden hair, White brow, red lips whereon thy lips are set With rapturous thrills undreamed of, past compare! Oh ecstasy of bliss! And yet—and yet— What doth it profit thee that every part Is thine except the little wayward heart? Eliza Calvert Hall.