  With sad face turned aside, lest sudden comers see her weep, She sits, her fingers softly trying, on the ivory keys, To find a half-forgotten way—that memories May soothe her yearning spirit into dreamful sleep. And now the old tune rises,—trembles,—slowly stealing round That empty room, where often in the other years It sang its love and tenderness, and gathered tears To eyes that weep no more,—ah, sweetest, hallowed sound! Irene Putnam. |
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