. . .span> Not thine the common fate to live Through life’s long weary days, And give all that thou had’st to give Uncheered by love and praise. Men did not wait to call thee great Till death had sealed thy brow. They crowned thy living head with bays; What does it matter now? Thy grave mound is a shrinèd place, Where pilgrim hearts may go, With loving thoughts and thankful prayers, Soft passing to and fro. Seldom with word the air is stirred, Seldom with sob or sigh; All silently and ceaselessly The march of hearts goes by. Now half our lives seems lived on earth, And half in heaven with thee. Our heart-beats measure out the road To where we fain would be,—[10] Beyond this strife of mortal life, This lonely ache and pain, Where we who miss and mourn thee so May find thee once again.

[11]

MARTHA HOT on the pavement burns the summer sun,. . . Read More