His face an abject picture of despair;

I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

With wasted form, emaciate and wan,

A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath,

His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon

His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death;

I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare,

A wasting death like that was worst to bear.

That day with fetters obdurate and fast,

With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall,

Is bounden to the dim receding past;

Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall,

With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air,

My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.

 They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.

They cannot see the wreaths we place

Upon the silent bier,

They cannot see the tear-stained face,

Nor feel the scalding tear,

And now can flowers or graven stone,

 Prev. P 53/131 next