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Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting,

Come and go, nor even pause to gaze; Only now and then a passing stranger

Just may loiter with a word of praise.

But I think, when years have floated onward,

And the stone is grey, and dim, and old, And the hand forgotten that has carved it,

And the heart that dreamt it still and cold;

There may come some weary soul, o'erladen

With perplexed struggle in his brain, Or, it may be, fretted with life’s turmoil,

Or made sore with some perpetual pain.

Then, I think those stony hands will open,

And the gentle lilies overflow,
With the blessing and the loving token

That you hid there many years ago.

And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him

How to solve the problem of his pain; And the birds' and angels' wings shake downward

On his heart a sweet and tender rain.

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.


NONS UST when the red June Roses blow

She gave me one,-a year ago.
O A Rose whose crimson breath revealed
The secret that its heart concealed,
And whose half shy, half tender grace
Blushed back upon the giver's face.

A year ago—a year ago
To hope was not to know.

Just when the red June Roses blow
I plucked her one,-a month ago :
Its half-blown crimson to eclipse,
I laid it on her smiling lips ;
The balmy fragrance of the south
Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth

Swiftly do golden hours creep,-
To hold is not to keep.

The red June Roses now are past,
This very day I broke the last-
And now its perfumed breath is hid,
With her, beneath a coffin-lid;
There will its petals fall apart,
And wither on her icy heart :-

At three red Roses' cost
My world was gained and lost.


OU write and think of me, my friend,
you with pity;
While you are basking in the light of

Shut up within the heart of this great city,
Too busy and too poor to leave my home.

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You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure,
Chained all day to my ledger and my pen ;
Too sickly even to use my little leisure
To bear me from the strife and din of men.


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.



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