of the heart, like the soil of the earth, May, at varying times of the seasons, give birth To bluebells, and roses, and bright goldenrod. Each one is a gift from the garden of God, Though it dies when its season is over. Why cling To the withered dead stalk of the blossoms of spring Through a lifetime, Maurice? It is stubbornness only, Not constancy, which makes full many lives lonely. They want their own way, and, like cross children, fling Back the gifts which, in place of the lost flowers of spring, Fate offers them. Life holds in store for you yet Better things, dear Maurice, than a dead violet, As it holds better things than dead daisies for me. To Roger Montrose, let us leave Mabel Lee, With our blessing. They seem to be happy; or she Seems content with herself and her province; while he Has the look of one who, overfed with emotion, Tries a diet of spiritual health-food, devotion. He is broken in strength, and his face has the hue Of a man to whom passion has bidden adieu. He has time now to worship his God and his wife. She seems better pleased with the dregs of his life Than she was with the bead of it. 

 Well, let them make What they will of their future. Maurice, for my sake And your own, put them out of your thoughts. All too brief And too broad is this life to be ruined by grief Over one human atom. Like mellowing rain, Which enriches the soil of the soul and the brain, Should the sorrow of youth be; and not like the breath Of the cyclone, which carries destruction and death. Come, Maurice, let philosophy lift you above The gloom and despair of unfortunate love. Sometimes, if we look a woe straight in the face, It loses its terrors and seems commonplace; While sorrow will follow and find if we roam. Come, help me to turn the old house into home. We have youth, health, and competence. Why should we go Out into God's world with long faces of woe? Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be dumb, Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come. Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes, For the world needs the happy far more than the wise. I am one of the women whose talent and taste Lie in home-making. All else I do seems mere waste Of time and intention; but no woman can Make a house seem a home without aid of a man. He is sinew and bone, she is spirit and life. Until the veiled future shall bring you a wife, Me a mate (and both wait for us somewhere, dear brother), Let us bury old corpses and live for each other. You will write, and your great heart athrob through your pen Shall strengthen earth's weak ones with courage again. Where your epigrams fail, I will offer a pill, And doctor their bodies with "new woman" skill. (Once a wife, I will drop from 

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