Puslapio vaizdai
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THE LAST LETTER.
LONG years within its sepulchre
Of faintly scented cedar
Has lain this letter dear to her
Who was its constant reader;
The postmark on the envelope
Sufficed the date to give her,
And told the birth of patient hope
That managed to outlive her.

How often to this treasure-box,

Tears in her eyes' soft fringes, She came with key and turned the locks, And on its brazen hinges Swung back the quaintly figured lid

And raised a sandal cover, Disclosing, under trinkets hid, This message from her lover.

Then lifting it as 't were a child,
Her hand awhile caressed it
Ere to the lips that sadly smiled

Time and again she pressed it;
Then drew the small inclosure out

And smoothed the wrinkled paper, Lest any line should leave a doubt Or any word escape her.

Still held the olden charm its place
Amid the tender phrases -
Time seemed unwilling to efface
The love-pervaded praises;

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