A TRAGEDY.

Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, The roses red and white.

I walk among them all alone, His silly, stupid wife; The world seems tasteless, dead and done— An empty thing is life.

At night his window casts a square Of light upon the lawn; I sometimes walk and watch it there Until the chill of dawn.

I have no brain to understand The books he loves to read; I only have a heart and hand He does not seem to need.

He calls me "Child"—lays on my hair Thin fingers, cold and mild; Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer, I wish I were a child!

And no one sees and no one knows (He least would know or see) That ere Love gathers next year's rose Death will have gathered me;

And on my grave will bindweed pink And round-faced daisies grow; He still will read and write and think, And never, never know!