I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind,
I look in hope and fear:
But grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here."
As I slowly repeated the words, I noticed that mother's gentle soft eyes were fixed on my face. She raised her hand now and then as if to beat time to the rhythm of the poetry. At last I reached the final verses.
"Say them slowly, West," whispered mother; "I know them so well, and they have comforted me so often. Say them very slowly, in particular that verse which speaks about death as 'but a covered way,'"
I continued—