That mark a jewel’s worth.

My feeble voice, so weak it sounds,

A puny earthy cry,

Yet when its echo comes to me,

Angelic voice in harmony,

I know it is not I.

It was belief that gave it wing,

That weakling voice of mine,

And carried it where angels sing

God’s Melody Divine.

{49}

{48}

GYPSIES (To R. B.)

Little gypsies of the city,

Little sparrows—more’s the pity,

Homeless, heedless of the weather,

Happy, banding all together,

Never giving thought to trouble,

Never seeing evil double,

Would that we who proudly mention

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