What could we do but go? We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo! The pearly door had closed, Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed.
“Nay, go not back,” she said; “Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.” Then, on the other side, On noiseless hinge another door swung wide,
Through which we onward passed Into a chamber lowlier than the last, But, oh! so sweet and calm That the hushed air was like a holy psalm.
“Chamber of Peace” was writ Where the low vaulted roof arched over it. Then knew we Grief must cease When sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace.
THREE ROSES
“Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose, A deep-tinted red rose?” said she. “In the sunny garden closes, How they burn, the dark-red roses, How they lift up their glowing cups to me!”
“Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose, A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she. “At its heart a flush so tender, With what veiled and softened splendor Droopeth now its languid head toward me!”
“Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose, A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she. “With its pale cheek tinted faintly, ’Tis a vestal, pure and saintly, Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!”
FOUR LETTERS
(INSCRIBED TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)
[In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29th, there is this record, “Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.]