Our Latin books, in motley row,

Invite us to our task—

Gay Horace, stately Cicero:

Yet there’s one verb, when once we know,

No higher skill we ask:

This ranks all other lore above—

We’ve learned “‘Amare’ means ‘to love’!”

So, hour by hour, from flower to flower,

We sip the sweets of Life:

Till, all too soon, the clouds arise,

And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes

Proclaim the dawn of strife:

With half a smile and half a sigh,

“Amare! Bitter One!” we cry.

Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,

“Too well the scholar knows

There is no rose without a thorn”—

But peace is made! We sing, this morn,

“No thorn without a rose!”

Our Latin lesson is complete:

We’ve learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!

May, 1888.