"No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
"But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
"Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine:
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.
"And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?"
Better still, of a standard excellence, is a little poem, which, by some shy ostrich prompting, Emily chose to call
"THE OLD STOIC.
"Riches I hold in light esteem;
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn:
"And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, 'Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!'
"Yes, as my swift days near their goal,
'Tis all that I implore;
In life and death, a chainless soul,
With courage to endure."
Throughout the book one recognises the capacity for producing something finer and quite different from what is here produced; one recognises so much, but not the
