But the shapes that they left behind them,
The wrinkles and silver hair, —
Made holy to us by the kisses
The angel had printed there, —
We will hide away 'neath the willows,
When the day is low in the west,
Where the sunbeams cannot find them,
Nor the winds disturb their rest.
And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone,
With its age and date to rise
O'er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father's house in the skies.
Louise Chandler Moulton.
A LITTLE PEACH.
A little peach in an orchard grew,—
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
One day, passing the orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue.
Up at the peach a club they threw:
Down from the stem on which it grew
Fell the little peach of emerald hue.
She took a bite, and John a chew;
And then the trouble began to brew,—
Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.
Under the turf where the daisies grew,
They planted John and his sister Sue,
And their little souls to the angels flew.