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They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;
On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;
Over her eyes which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; well
With a tender touch they closed up The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to tell;
About her brows and beautiful face
He and she; still she did not move
Then he said: "Cold lips, and breast without breath!
Is there no voice! no language of death?
"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and soul distinct, intense?
"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear?
"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall? "Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, Was the miracle deeper to find how deep, Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep?
And drew on her white feet her white
Which were the whitest no eye could "Did life roll back its record, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
Who will believe what he heard her say, | Monster fishes swam the silent main, With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old
Stately forests waved their giant
Mountains hurled their snowy ava
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature revelled in grand mysteries; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees,
Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,
No one came to note it day by day.
Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep, strong currents of the
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,
Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,
Covered it, and hid it safe away.
O, the long, long centuries since that day!
O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost!
Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man
Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings leafage, fibres clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls
Sweetly to surprise us the last day.
AT the spring of an arch in the great north tower,
High up on the wall, is an angel's head;
And beneath it is carved a lily flower, With delicate wings at the side out
HARRIET O. NELSON.
They say that the sculptor wrought from the face
Of his youth's lost love, of his promised bride,
And when he had added the last sad grace
To the features, he dropped his chisel and died.
And the worshippers throng to the shrine below,
And the sight-seers come with their curious eyes,
But deep in the shadow, where none may know
Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies.
Yet at early morn on a midsummer's day,
When the sun is far to the north, for the space
Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray Through an amber pane on the angel's face.
Some craving for an unknown good, That in the spirit fluttered,
Our footsteps sought the humble house Unmarked by cross or towering steeple, Where for their First-day gathering came God's plain and simple people?
The air was soft, the sky was large,
The grass as gay with golden flowers
And, as we walked, the apple-trees
Yet through the doorway, rude and low,
We sat apart, but still were near
It was wrought for the eye of God, and Who seek through stronger love to God