Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/79

 Like her dead mother’s; but through her dear eyes Her father smiled upon me, day by day. Afar in foreign countries did he roam, Now resting under Italy’s blue skies, And now with Roy in Scotland.

And he sent Brief, friendly letters, telling where he went And what he saw, addressed to May or me. And I would write and tell him how she grew— And how she talked about him o’er the sea In her sweet baby fashion; how she knew His picture in the album; how each day She knelt and prayed the blessed Lord would bring Her own papa back to his little May. It was a warm bright morning in the Spring. I sat in that same sunny portico, Where I was sitting seven years ago When Vivian came. My eyes were full of tears, As I looked back across the checkered years. How many were the changes they had brought! Pain, death, and sorrow! but the lesson taught To my young heart had been of untold worth. I had learned how to “suffer and grow strong”— That knowledge which best serves us here on earth, And brings reward in Heaven.

Oh! how long The years had been since that June morning when I heard his step upon the walk, and yet I seemed to hear its echo still.

Just then Down that same path I turned my eyes, tear-wet, And lo! the wanderer from a foreign land Stood there before me!—holding out his hand And smiling with those wond’rous eyes of old.

To hide my tears, I ran and brought his child; But she was shy, and clung to me, when told This was papa, for whom her prayers were said. She dropped her eyes and shook her little head, And would not by his coaxing be beguiled, Or go to him.

Aunt Ruth was not at home, And we two sat and talked, as strangers might,