I sometimes think that Shakespear… To me that very self so long conce… But if his soul my soul has lighte… I sometimes think it was to gaze o… To find, with loving wonder in his…

WE read your Letters! no word los… All, all is rememberèd; And often when there comes no Pos… Once more are the old ones read. Of all she did we love to hear,

Oft in the night I am with you, D… I lean and listen your breathing t… Little you dream of any one near. No one knoweth that I am gone; Curtains closely about me drawn,

We thank Thee, Lord, for one day To look Heaven in the face! The Poor have only Sunday; The sweeter is the grace. 'Tis then they make the music

Who would not wish the Dead were… If we can dry the mourners’ tear? Who would not pray the Dead may s… When starving Orphans wake to wee…

There are two Heavens for natures… And calm as thine, my gentle Love… One Heaven but reflected here; One Heaven that waits above: As yonder Lake, in Evening’s red,

WE are not only where we seem To live, but in some Astral gleam Dwell also in a world of dream! Some heavenward window opes above The shut-up soul, to lean out of,

A FEW more Meetings on the Deep… And partings on the shore; And then in Heaven at last we kee… Our tryst for evermore. A little further we must bear

No green age, beautiful to see, Hath Poor Old Gran! No ripe life mellowed goldenly Hath Poor Old Gran! One by one we have left her fold,

‘TIS hard to die in Spring-time, When, to mock our bitter need, All life around runs over In its fullness without heed: New life for tiniest twig on tree,

You have your Angel in the House!… On this, her likeness, mirrored in… If but to learn how shadowy the I… In presence of the living, loving…

Upon us falls the shadow of night, And darkened is our day! My Love will greet the morning li… Four hundred miles away. God love her! torn so swift and fa…

THERE is no gleam of glory gone, For those who read in Nature’s Bo… No lack of triumph in their look Who stand in Her Eternal Dawn. Friends of a failing Faith! while…

A MERRY sound of clapping hands… A call to see the sight; And lo! the first soft snow-flakes… So exquisitely virginal: 'Tis my wee Nell at window stands…