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153
Alice.
FEBRUARY 24TH, 1884.
Her life was as a missal, year by year
Writ in red letters of self-sacrifice,
Illumined quaintly for the children's eyes,
Plain to be read, and musical to hear.
A tale of life so generous, so sincere,
That angels stooped to listen with surprise,
And, for such books are scarce in Paradise,
Bade Death go close it—so they brought it there.
Writ in red letters of self-sacrifice,
Illumined quaintly for the children's eyes,
Plain to be read, and musical to hear.
A tale of life so generous, so sincere,
That angels stooped to listen with surprise,
And, for such books are scarce in Paradise,
Bade Death go close it—so they brought it there.
Between the golden chapters week by week,
And 'twixt the lines in ink invisible,
She, skilled in all the arts, but most in this,
Had penned a language only angels speak,
And when their fuller sunlight on it fell,
These words leapt forth in answer—“I am His.”
And 'twixt the lines in ink invisible,
She, skilled in all the arts, but most in this,
Had penned a language only angels speak,
And when their fuller sunlight on it fell,
These words leapt forth in answer—“I am His.”
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