Tears are gauge of purest mind,
Drop e'en a few the maimed and blind:
I loved that song—
Mother sang it, and the wind
Swept soft along.
As I think of saintly face,
The touch of tender loving grace,
I silent turn
Where the sunbeams leapt—no trace
To find no bourne.
So leave I the sunset song,
And hie me home to where I long
To bow my head;
Blessèd the hand that struck among
Chords long since dead,
Bringing back the golden time
Of love and hope in its familiar rhyme;
The corn in ear—
Breath of the bee-swarmed murmuring lime,
To cottage dear.
Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.
All Rights Reserved.
[Transcriber's Note—The following changes have been made to this text:
Page 578: mottets to motets.]