By Theodore Watts
335
Seemed loving her who shone beneath that tree—
With lawns far off whose flower of higher delight
Behind Death's icy peaks and fens of night
Bloomed 'neath a heaven her eyes, not ours, could see.
Brother, did Nature mock us with that glory
Which seemed to prophesy Love's rounded story?
Or was it, that sweet Summer's fond device
To show thee who shall stand on Eden slopes,
Where bloom the broken buds of earthly hopes
Stand waiting 'neath a tree of Paradise?
