But who only knows
Whom this maiden can be,
She’s my secret inspirer,
And the world to me.
Sometimes when I write
She stands by my side,
If my poem’s of the ocean
She rides on the tide.
Now little one
My thoughts are dim,
But with your guidance
I worked with vim.
And now I must go,
But my thoughts are of you.
We’ll meet here next Sunday
In the lane at two.
A SPARK OF LOVE
What will ease
Two aching hearts
That fate and time
Has drifted apart?
I’ll speak to this rose,
For maybe it knows
A gladness for her love
That’s now reposed.
Why did our minds
With spirited souls,
Let distance ring in
Leaving our hearts grow cold?
Now we sit and dream
Though miles away,
Neither can enjoy
The blessings of the day.
For a moment we’re happy
Then sadness prevails,
In our ears whistles memories
Like a nightingale.
THE DEATH OF MRS. WORMSLEY
Down along Lincoln way,
In our church on Sabbath day
A shock to a father, sisters and brothers,
When the Master called the Wormsley mother.
Tear drops then began to fall,
But this is the sting must come to us all,
With a pitiful look, one at the other,
To mourn the death of the Wormsley mother.
Soon the alarm spread around,
And hung a sad token o’er the town,
The alarm traveled farther and farther,
While the heaven’s doors opened to Wormsley mother.
EASTER ROSES
(To Mrs. Perry Honce McGee)
The roses you hold
Though they are withering away,
In their heart is my love
And a brighter day.