January 1, 1887.
The deepening years have proved
Love's conquest justified.
The woman's hungry heart at last
In God is satisfied.
[A MONOLOGUE.]
Has Love come?
Ah, too late!
Already Death stands o'er me
With hungry eyes that bore me—
O cruel fate,
That after all life's years
Of sacrifice and tears,
'Tis Death, not Love, that wins.
But, stay! This message bear,
Ere yet Death's work begins:
"In other realms earth's losses
Will change from saddening crosses
To love-crowned joy,
Where Death shall have no mission,
But Love his sweet fruition
Without alloy."
[A PRICELESS GIFT.]
'Twas much he asked—a virgin heart
Unknown to worldly ways.
What could he give? Ah, well he knew
He lacked sweet virtue's praise.