Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting, But I think, when years have floated onward, There may come some weary soul, o'erladen Then, I think those stony hands will open, With the blessing and the loving token And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him And the birds' and angels' wings shake downward While he marvels at his fancy, reading Meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll, Little guessing that the loving Carver, Left a message for his weary soul. THREE ROSES. UST when the red June Roses blow A Rose whose crimson breath revealed The secret that its heart concealed, And whose half shy, half tender grace Just when the red June Roses blow Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth. Swiftly do golden hours creep, To hold is not to keep. The red June Roses now are past, And wither on her icy heart:- My world was gained and lost. MY PICTURE GALLERY. Shut I. OU write and think of me, my friend, with pity; While you are basking in the light of Rome, up within the heart of this great city, Too busy and too poor to leave my home. II. You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure, To bear me from the strife and din of men. III. Well it is true; yet, now the days are longer, At sunset I can lay my writing down, And slowly crawl (summer has made me stronger) Just to the nearest outskirt of the town. |