If we, sore-stricken, saw but seven?
Kind Shepherd, as of old Thou’lt run
And fold at need a straggling one.
CONVENT ECHOES
By Helen Louise Moriarty
Clear on the air, their pulsing cadence pealing,
I hear a sweet refrain,
While o’er my thoughts a gentle mist is stealing,
And mem’ries come again,
Of quiet halls where dusk is slow descending,