SHE read the words of him that was her own:
The dauntless brow that grief itself had steeled
Quickened with listening ever, not in vain
Amid brave stories of the stricken field,
For strange, sad echoes from a child's heart grown
Untimely old, that scarce will dance again
This side the grave, but nathless keeps a leaven
Of mirth most bitter sweet.
So changed her face, 'twixt pride and sorrowing,
As stirs and shadows sun-bleached wheat
With winds that walk the stair of heaven
And high clouds hovering.