CLOSED.
WWithinher soul there is a sacred place,Forever set apart to holy thought;There once a miracle divine was wrought,And common things grew fair with heavenly grace.Think not to know the secret of that room;—Closed is the door, even to herself; no moreShe lingers there, though well our hearts are sureIt is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom.The violets that blossom there unseenWere never gathered, and so never fade;Breathing serenely through the gentle shadeTheir memories of all that once had been.When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends,Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feelA strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal,Let us speak softly of a Past that sendsThrough the closed crevice of its silent door,No bitterness in those remembered hours;But in the delicate breath of such fair flowersOnly the sweetness of the days of yore.
WWithinher soul there is a sacred place,Forever set apart to holy thought;There once a miracle divine was wrought,And common things grew fair with heavenly grace.Think not to know the secret of that room;—Closed is the door, even to herself; no moreShe lingers there, though well our hearts are sureIt is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom.The violets that blossom there unseenWere never gathered, and so never fade;Breathing serenely through the gentle shadeTheir memories of all that once had been.When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends,Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feelA strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal,Let us speak softly of a Past that sendsThrough the closed crevice of its silent door,No bitterness in those remembered hours;But in the delicate breath of such fair flowersOnly the sweetness of the days of yore.
WWithinher soul there is a sacred place,Forever set apart to holy thought;There once a miracle divine was wrought,And common things grew fair with heavenly grace.Think not to know the secret of that room;—Closed is the door, even to herself; no moreShe lingers there, though well our hearts are sureIt is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom.The violets that blossom there unseenWere never gathered, and so never fade;Breathing serenely through the gentle shadeTheir memories of all that once had been.When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends,Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feelA strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal,Let us speak softly of a Past that sendsThrough the closed crevice of its silent door,No bitterness in those remembered hours;But in the delicate breath of such fair flowersOnly the sweetness of the days of yore.
W
Withinher soul there is a sacred place,
Forever set apart to holy thought;
There once a miracle divine was wrought,
And common things grew fair with heavenly grace.
Think not to know the secret of that room;—
Closed is the door, even to herself; no more
She lingers there, though well our hearts are sure
It is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom.
The violets that blossom there unseen
Were never gathered, and so never fade;
Breathing serenely through the gentle shade
Their memories of all that once had been.
When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends,
Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feel
A strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal,
Let us speak softly of a Past that sends
Through the closed crevice of its silent door,
No bitterness in those remembered hours;
But in the delicate breath of such fair flowers
Only the sweetness of the days of yore.