Page:Ellen Olney Kirk, Florence Earle Coates, 1889.djvu/2

268 Yes, something won;

The harvest of our tears—

Something unfading, plucked from fading years;

Something to blossom on beyond the sun,

From Sorrow won.

The agony,

So hopeless now of balm,

Shall sleep at last, in light as pure and calm,

As that wherewith the stars look down on thee,

Gethsemane.

PROBATION.

LIMITATION.

MORNING.

DIDST THOU REJOICE?

FREDERICK.