Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of the vanished springtime Will bloom in the spirit’s track.
One draught from the living waters Shall call back his manhood’s prime; And eternal years shall measure The love that outlasted time.
But the shapes that they left behind them, The wrinkles and silver hair,— Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there,—
We will hide away ’neath the willows, When the day is low in the west, Where the sunbeams cannot find them, Nor the winds disturb their rest.
And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone, With its age and date to rise O’er the two who are old no longer, In the Father’s house in the skies. Louise Chandler Moulton.
A LITTLE PEACH.
A little peach in an orchard grew,— A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew.
One day, passing the orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue. Them two.
Up at the peach a club they threw: Down from the stem on which it grew Fell the little peach of emerald hue. Brand New!