THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER.
The spare-room windows wide were raised, And you could look that summer dayOn pastures green, and sunny hills, And low rills wandering away.Near by, the square front yard was sweet With rose and caraway.
Upon a couch drawn near the light, The Deacon's only daughter lay,Bending noon the distant hills Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray;The blue veins on her forehead shone 'Twas wasted so away.
She moved, and from her slender hand Fell off her mother's wedding-ring;She smiled into her father's face— "So drops from me each earthly thing;My hands are free to hold the flowers Of the eternal spring."
She had ever walked in quiet ways, Not over beds of flowery ease,
