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SOSPIRI VOLATE.
THUS I found them labelled,
In an old bureau ;
Hands that wrote and eyes that read
Withered long ago ;
Fulness of the story
No one now can know.
Softly laid together
All the letters now ;
Do they bend above them still, —
Saints with radiant brow ?
"Gregory to Margaret."
All is uttered now ;
Gone the seal of silence,
That delayed their vow.
Should I burn them dumbly !
Half I thought it well.
' T was not mine, the sacred thing
Was it right to tell?
Halo of its sacredness
Should I thus dispel ?
