Scarred yellow by Time’s ruthless hand;

Disclosing a bundle of letters

Tied up with a pale ribbon band.

“These,” she said, “are like leaves from a fernery,

Long pressed in a book with a flower;

And the memories wafted up from them,

Like perfume that follows a shower.

“With no wormwood or gall in the essence,

Few tares in life’s garden were sown;

The clouds partly hiding the sunshine,

Some weeds with the blossoms have grown.

“But we loved”—here she held out a picture;

A tear-drop was dimming her eye,

As a cloud will o’ershadow the landscape,

Or shut out a star in the sky.

I took up a ring and a locket,

Set deep with a ruby and pearl;

The clasp was all tarnished and broken,

And tear-stained the face of the girl,

Whose eyes were awake in Hope’s morning,

Love kindled their depths with his spark—

Even then, from the red velvet lining,

They glowed like a gem in the dark.

I turned to the sad little figure,

’Round the package the faded cord tied;

Pressed my lips to her cheek—ah, how sadly

The roses had bloomed there and died.

Long we sat in the lingering twilight,

Looking back o’er the vanishing years;

She sobbed out her grief on my bosom,

And moistened my brow with her tears.

What comfort in words could I offer?

There was more in a soul-telling glance;

For each heart hath its season of springtime,

Each heart hath a buried romance.