There was a woman, beautiful as morning, Sitting beneath the rocks upon the sand Of the waste sea--fair as one flower adorning An icy wilderness--each delicate hand Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band Of her dark hair had fallen, and so she sat Looking upon the waves. London and May. What visions of gayety and beauty, of life and brightness, the conjunction of those two words brings before the mind! London in May, when, as it might almost seem, the first gleam of sunshine had called forth, from the essential nothing of obscurity, gay flutterers of a million colored hues, to spread their wings and float joyously in an atmosphere of hope.…
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