VERSES

COLLECTED IN LOVING MEMORY OF

SARAH ALICE GORDON

BY HER MOTHER

They are poor

That have lost nothing; they are poorer far
Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget.
For life is one, and in its warp and woof
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet
Where there are somber colors. It is true

That we have wept. But, oh, this thread of gold!
We would not have it tarnish; let us turn

Oft, and look back upon the wondrous web,
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know
That memory is possession.

JEAN INGELOW.

A PHOTOGRAPH

THIS is her shadow,—nothing more;

The eyes that wear no smile for mine, The silent lips that laughed before,

The hair, without its wave and shine, This mask that shows no mark divine.

How calm, and cold it looks at me;

Her eyes were full of shade and sun, A look that rippled like the sea, Across whose breast the light waves run;

A gleam, a cloud, a tale begun.

This is the veil her soul put on

To run the weary ways of earth; And when her fleeting race was won,

She laid it down beside the hearth.

It is not she that fronts me here

This speechless aspect still and cold: I knew her fair, and sweet, and dear, A clinging girl, with heart of gold,

And hands that clasped with tender hold.

Was it a tender prophecy,

This slight transparent mould of clay, To let the loving round her see

How soon that soul must flit away, That fluttered, paused, but made no stay?

Not here, but risen; oh, angel song,
Still falling soft on hearts that weep!
This is the dead whose ashes long

Her Master's messengers shall keep, Safe in Earth's last undreaming sleep.

But she who wore this mortal guise

Has fled beyond our tearful sight; Joyful and strong, serene and wise, She lives upon the hills of light, And waits us on that heavenly height.

ROSE TERRY COOKE.