["Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful curves."]
BOX CAÑON, LOOKING OUTWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.
A helpless paralytic met my eyes,
Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand,
But hung distorted and of shrunken size,
Insensible to muscular command;
His face an abject picture of despair;
I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.
With wasted form, emaciate and wan,
A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath,
His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon
His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death;
I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare,
A wasting death like that was worst to bear.
That day with fetters obdurate and fast,
With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall,
Is bounden to the dim receding past;
Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall,
With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air,
My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.
They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.
They cannot see the wreaths we place
Upon the silent bier,
They cannot see the tear-stained face,
Nor feel the scalding tear,
And now can flowers or graven stone,
For wrongs done them in life atone?
Better the flower that smooths the thorns
On earthly pathway found,
Than that which uselessly adorns
The bier or silent mound.
And neither tear nor floral token
Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.