By reverent mother and much-loving aunt
Told the sad story of Jerusalem’s loss.
So, still with constant question turning o’er
My pictured hoard, she begged that of its wealth
Some might to her be given, choosing first
What brightest shone with color deep and rich,
And, though, because to each least line there clung
Some precious thought, her question oft denied,
Persisting ever; till at length were found
Some little prints, less treasured, at her will.