A bubble on Life’s mighty stream:

Bright with the western beam.

The echo of a long low cry,

In loneliest agony.

Upon my soul with dreamy grace—

In every time and place.

To sweet disorder as she flies,

[Pg 45]

Flushed cheek and laughing eyes—

The glory of a queen-like face—

In wild and wanton grace—

Whose tale of life is well-nigh told—

To Bethany of old.

The gathering crowd of Pharisees,

Yon woman on her knees.

Wrung from the depth of sin’s despair:

And wipes them with her hair.

[Pg 46]

Of her, the lowest and the last;

This relic of the past.

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