FOR AN ALBUM
(TO BE READ ONE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER)
A century's summer breezes shook
The maple shadows on the grass
Since she who owned this ancient book
From the green world to heaven did pass.
Beside a northern lake she grew,
A wild-flower on its craggy walls;
Her eyes were mingled gray and blue,
Like waves where summer sunlight falls.
Cheerful from morn to evening-close,
No humblest work, no prayer forgot!
Yet who of woman born but knows
The sorrows of our mortal lot!
And she too suffered, tho' the wound
Was hidden from the general gaze,
And most from those who thus had found
An added burden for their days.
She had no special grace, nor art;
Her riches not in banks were kept;
Her treasure was a gentle heart;
Her skill to comfort those who wept.
Not without foes her days were past,
For quick her burning scorn was fanned.
Her friends were many—least and last,
A poet from a distant land.
