THE LAST LETTER. 253
For the sunny time touching now and then Holds within a lover-guest.
So they faintly call from the August edge
Of summer to say, "Good-bye," But she never misses the singing band
That fades in the southern sky ;
For the happy time that was strangely short
Twixt coming and going wings Had its own fair idyl rhymed and set,
And this, little Ruthie sings.
" See ! the birds are here !" "Lo ! the birds have gone!"
Ah ! in all your lifetime, dear, They will never sing, never once again,
As they sang, little Ruth, this year.
��THE LAST LETTER.
WHO knows when the last letter comes How tender and touching a sorrow May hang o er the commonplace words The postman shall bring with the morrow !
A little white fluttering fold,
It tells not its terrible story ; Nor whispers neath ripples of speech
Its place in the doorway of glory. 22