SONNET CXXVII.

As one who sees a thing incredible, In mutual marvel Love and I combine, Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine, None but herself can be her parallel. Where the fine arches of that fair brow swell So sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine, Than whom no safer brighter beacons shine His course to guide who'd wisely love and well. What miracle is this, when, as a flower, She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast, Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'd And oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour, To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there, Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair. Macgregor.