by Rose Terry Cooke
The old, old story o'er again --
Made up of passion, parting, pain.
He fought and fell, to live in fame,
But dying only breathed her name.
Some tears, most sad and innocent;
Some rebel thoughts, but all unmeant;
Then, with a silent, shrouded heart,
She turned to life and played her part.
Another man, who vowed and loved,
Her patient, pitying spirit moved,
Sweet hopes the dread of life beguiled, --
The lost love sighed, -- the new love smiled.
So she was wed and children bore,
And then her widowed sables wore;
Her eyes grew dim, her tresses gray,
And dawned at length her dying day.
Her children gather, -- some are gone,
Asleep beneath a lettered stone;
The living, cold with grief and fear,
Stoop down her whispered speech to hear.
No child she calls, no husband needs.
At death's sharp touch the old wound bleeds:
Call him! she cried, her first love's name
Leapt from her heart with life's last flame.
William S. Gottsberger
11 Murray Street
Che Sara SaraIn Part Solitaire The Man Who Loved The Queen Schemhammphorasch All Saints' Eve C. E. T. Fallen My Cup A Rosary Camaralzaman The Lesson Midnight To ____. (Heart of my heart!...) Trailing Arbutus Once Before Blue-Beard's Closet