Of town-nursed bloom were ringing ill away.
With folded hands St. Helen’s glance beneath,
I trod in thought the highway of the cross—
Jerusalem’s triumph blending with her loss,
The palm-bough changing for the thorny wreath.
And clasped the folded hands about the bough
Of northern hemlock that as palm I bore,
Listening the words of sorrow chanted o’er—
The old evangel’s solemn voice of woe;
O wondrous power of a passing breath!