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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,
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.
A year ago—a year ago
Just when the red June Roses blow
Swiftly do golden hours creep,-
The red June Roses now are past,
At three red Roses' cost
MY PICTURE GALLERY.
OU write and think of me, my friend,
You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure,
Well it is true; yet, now the days are longer,